


Second Priority Mail

by orphan_account



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1920s, Angst, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, POV Third Person Omniscient, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2531984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(S5 spoilers) Thomas and James decide to write to each other as a means of coping with being apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May 1st

**Author's Note:**

> this has been / is being beta-ed and britpicked by the loveliest betseytrotwood :-)

** Second priority mail **

_''Well write to me. You may save a human life.''_

_-Ernest Hemingway_

_from The Letters Of Ernest Hemingway: Vol. 2 (1923-1925)_

 

** Chapter one **

 

Lord Grantham often thought he knew what other people were telling him even when they weren't actually speaking.  
He was certain that he could read people, sense slight changes in their demeanour and notice alterations in the pattern of their daily lives.  He wouldn't have called himself a mind reader, though he considered himself to be as able as one.  
In reality, he was as capable of reading people's minds as the next man. Susceptible to jealousy, pride and incapable of unbiased thought, he was quick to make conclusions which would greatly differ from the reality of the situation.

So it was, when on a bleak May morning, his valet appeared in his room. With only the requisite salutation, Bates went about his duties. Robert found this quite queer, especially when John answered using only the shortest of words upon being asked to comment on the weather. He had been hoping that Bates would join him in a lengthy discussion about the rain which had succeeded in its attempt to dampen both the lawns and everyone's mood.

Anyone could see that it wasn't only the weather that troubled Bates. His forehead bore deep creases, his brow permanently furrowed.

''Don't tell me it's the bobbies,'' Lord Grantham said after Bates had brushed the last blemish off his coat.

''I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, m'lord,'' Bates admitted.

''Something's obviously bothering you,'' Robert pointed out sagaciously, ''Honestly, I thought that the police would be out of our hair by now, but it's not long until Gillingham realises he's looking in the wrong place. I don't take it that whoever wrote the alleged letter resides at Downton, anyway.''

''The letter, m'lord?''

Lord Grantham sighed before looking out the window. ''The police are saying that there's been an anonymous letter containing some information pertaining the murder of Gillingham's valet. I suppose it's possible that someone who has information is corresponding with someone outside-''

''Outside?'' Bates interrupted, forgetting himself, taken with the thought that if there was an _outside_ , there must also have been an inside. ''Pardon me, m'lord. I know that no one at Downton could possibly be leading the police on,'' he said, not entirely truthfully, remembering a man who would use this and any opportunity to ruin him for fun. ''But what if someone is...’’ _Bitter, unhappy_? ‘’What if someone is writing to other people outside the house?''  
A tiny slip of paper inside an envelope, concealed inside of Bates' pocket, suddenly felt as if it weighed a ton. His Lordship's words had confirmed everything he had feared, Barrow was somehow managing to give reality to his teasing and had probably gotten that rascal Kent to play along.

Lord Grantham's eyes widened. ''Is there something you're not telling me, Bates?'' he asked.

Bates cracked a nervous smile, ''No, m'lord. I suppose I got a bit carried away. Forgive me,'' he said, feigning sincerity. He decided not to hope that Lord Grantham would let it go and instead attempted to change the topic. ''That's not what's bothering me, actually,'' he admitted, and this time it was partially true.

''What is it, then?''

Bates took a deep breath before commencing, ''You see, m'lord, I found a peculiar item in my wife's cupboard...'' He trailed off, seemingly unable to continue. Lord Grantham offered him a seat. After they were both seated, he cleared his throat and continued in a hushed voice.  
''Are you familiar with a book called _Married Love_?''

Lord Grantham stiffened in his seat, ''Don't tell me Mrs. Bates has been reading that!''

His lips pressed in a tight line, Bates looked at the floor. ''I'm afraid she's thought of... implementing it, m'lord.

''Oh-'' Lord Grantham stuttered out, leaving the ''-you poor man'' silent, albeit probably assumed by Bates. Bates was, after all, able to see the Lord's horror-stricken face.

''You see, Mrs. Bates bought this – _device_ – for controlling one's chances of getting pregnant...'' Bates said quietly, as if he were struggling to get the words out.

''Do you think she's being adulterous?'' Lord Grantham asked tactlessly.  
  
Actually, Bates had only thought that his wife didn't want any children.  This was, to him, horrifying in itself but debatably a lesser threat to his masculinity than his wife seeking satisfaction elsewhere.

''Actually,'' Bates said, ''I don't think Mrs. Bates would be capable of such a thing, m'lord.''

Lord Grantham gave him a small smile, ''Oh, of course,'' he said. ''I must admit I was rather foolish to suggest that was the case. As to why it crossed my mind is a different story entirely...''

Bates straightened up, mildly alarmed and very intrigued.

''If you don't mind me asking, m'lord-''

Robert cut him off and nodded, ''Yes, alright,'' he said briskly, ''I might as well say it... It's Cora you see – spending countless hours in those darn galleries with-''  
He sighed, aggravated.

''M'lord, I assure you that her ladyship could never cross any line, she's a refined, trustworthy woman.''

''Up until a week ago I was certain that Anstruther was refined and trustworthy, or whatever you like to call it.''  
  
Bates found it funny that his Lordship had used it as an example, but seemed to have no comment. 

''You can never know with women these days,'' Lord Grantham added, ''But what's truly disappointing is the men who engage in this – this blatant lack of self control.''  
He was rambling,  well aware of his relationship with one of the maids, but he was also aware that no one else knew about it, proud that he could still appear morally superior to other men.  

Bates nodded, and his lordship continued.  
''It's Bricker with whom I have a problem – I wouldn't want him pulling off a stunt like James Kent,'' Lord Grantham added bitterly.

Bates knew that that was the right time to speak up, ''Speaking of Mr. Kent,'' he said, ''I'd like to inform you that there's been a letter from him this morning.''  
He was about to pull the small envelope out of his pocket when he stopped mid-track and relaxed his hand. If this letter had anything he suspected it did – if it had been a reply to one of Barrow's previous, mendacious letters – he wanted to keep it to himself.

''I don't know who it's addressed to, m'lord, but it hasn't been claimed yet,'' he said, keeping a stern expression.

Indignant, in a sort of peer-pressure-like haze, Robert was trying to show a fellow decent man that he couldn't possibly approve of anything related to Jimmy Kent. He asked Bates to ''Please, dispose of the letter, regardless of to whom it is addressed. I'll talk to Carson in case any more arrive.''

Robert didn't really care to whom the letter was addressed, whoever it was, he knew that they couldn't benefit from anything written by an untrustworthy man like Kent.

Bates was surprised at how well Lord Grantham had reacted to it.  
''As you wish, m'lord,'' he said.

''Thank you, Bates,'' Lord Grantham said, getting up, ''I might as well tell Carson after breakfast.''

Bates was quick to follow him in getting up. ''Very well, m'lord,'' Bates said before making a beeline for the door, the weight of the small letter dragging him down.

 

* * *

 

Thomas felt as if the skin of his back was being ripped apart with every move he made.

It was the worst when he first noticed that the place where the needle kissed his skin was reddening.  
The panic, stark, overwhelming – that was the worst bit.

Over the course of a few days, he convinced himself that he was becoming numb to the pain. It was growing with each passing day, but so was his hope that it would eventually leave him completely.

At the end of each day, he told himself that the worst had passed. He had no other choice but to remain optimistic.

If he lasted through the therapy, a month or so of being _inconvenienced,_ he would better the life that lay ahead of him.

To change himself seemed to be the only way to find happiness -  something he was after ever since Jimmy had left. But with everything that Thomas did, he felt as if he was failing Jimmy, disrespecting the last thing Jimmy had requested of him before departing.

He was certain that happiness would come, though. Like walking miles in a pair of shoes far too small before taking them off and letting his blistered feet bask in the sun.

What bothered him above all of the pain was the immense feeling of shame. Maiming. Ripping his _heart_ apart.

It was the shame of treating his best friend the way he had.

He hadn't fought hard enough for Jimmy to stay, and then he had selfishly expected to receive a letter without ever having thought of sending one himself, or even finding out the recipient's address.

 

That morning, he had been administering another dose of his therapy when he broke down. He began considering asking for help. Three days before, Baxter had found him in one of the downstairs bathrooms, but he didn't want help from her. From any of them. He knew that even a single written word from the man he still deemed to be his best friend would be more helpful than anything the other residents of Downton could think of doing.

After injecting the dose which made him sit on the floor shivering - clammy, against the bedpost - and made him miss the servants' breakfast, he opened his window to the cold May deluge and sat on the windowsill. He got his underclothes wet but any damp, cold air was better than the smelly, stuffy air that had been fermenting in his room.

Later, upon arriving into the servants' hall, he observed that only Baxter had seemed to notice his absence at breakfast, and even she didn’t dare ask him anything about it.

Mr. Carson and Molesley had gone up to serve breakfast and Thomas saw that he wasn't needed at that moment, so he went to look for Mrs. Hughes. He ran into her just as she was emerging from the kitchen and asked her if she had a moment to spare.

''Well, I suppose. What is it that you need, Mr. Barrow?'' she replied.

''I, ah. I'm not sure how to put it, exactly, I-'' he began, averting his eyes.

''I can't spare the entire morning,'' she reminded him politely.

He nodded. ''Right, sorry. Do you know what happened to James after he left?''

''Pardon?''

''Jimmy - Do you know where he lives, has he kept in contact with anyone?''

Mrs. Hughes paused to think for a moment, ''Well, I hear he's in London, with his cousins.''

''Would you happen to have an address?'' excitement blossomed in every of Thomas' limbs. The gravity of the situation was settling upon him; finally he realised that he might be able to restore his friendship with one of the best men he ever knew. ''I, ah, I'd like to send him a letter,'' he said, almost proudly, ''To wish him luck in the big world and all that.''

Mrs. Hughes' smile seemed forced. ''While that is very nice of you, Mr. Barrow, I'm afraid I can't help you. You ought to ask Anna.''

''Anna?''

''She's the one who saw him in London, she might know where he lives now,'' she said, turning around to speak to a maid who had requested her attention. ''Though I could’ve sworn there’d been something this morning – but no, it must have been from someone else,'' she muttered when the maid retreated to the kitchen, more to herself than Thomas.

Thomas' heart  was beating loudly. While he liked Anna well enough, he never thought that she could bring him _that_ much joy.  He nodded and gave Mrs. Hughes a small smile, ''Thank you.''

''You're welcome,'' she said, shaking her head as he began to turn away. After a few steps, he could hear her voice behind him.

''Mr. Barrow?'' Mrs. Hughes called, sounding concerned, ''Are you alright?'' she asked, apparently noticing his stiff gait.

''Fine, thank you,'' he replied in a clipped tone and forced a smile. On his way to find Mrs. Bates, he heard the voice of her spouse in Carson's office and couldn't pass up the opportunity to listen in for a moment.

The door was slightly ajar, displaying Carson sitting behind his desk while Bates stood in front of it.  
  
''Once again, I do not approve of this,'' Carson said as he handed Bates a small envelope. By the look on Bates' face, he didn't seem to approve of it either, but pocketed the envelope anyway – whatever it was. Thomas was too tired to get himself involved in Bates' shady business.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_April 30, 1924._

_Warner Street 13a, London_

_My Dear Mr. Barrow,_

_I'm really sorry for not having written earlier. I've only just settled in. Things are alright here. I got a new job, at the Regent Palace Hotel, as a waiter. It's not a lot different than working in a big house, but I do so miss Downton. You would like it here. There's a lot of beautiful men, so I fit right in._

_I'm staying with my aunt Irene in a flat near the viaduct. My cousin Oscar, who is her son, who is also nineteen, really reminds me of you. He's ever so smart and well-read. He's also quite loquacious, and would know how to write the long letter you deserve. I'm afraid I'm not as clever.  
I do hope you write back. I really miss Downton, and I'd love to know how you're spending your days there. _

_I promise to make my next letter longer._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Jimmy_

_P.S. If you ever have the time and will, come to London. For what it's worth, I think you would fit right in as well._

 


	2. May 2nd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a huge thanks to everyone who left kudos! i hope you like this one.

** Chapter two **

~~Deares~~ ~~~~~~~~~~  
~~

~~Dear Jimmy~~

Dear James,  
  
 _Yes. That should work._

_Tell him I wish I had written earlier._

_I was busy. No._

_Don't lie to Jimmy._

Thinking about writing a letter made his contrition simmer down under the warm effervescence of joy. With each step, a new idea popped into his mind – he thought of new things he could put on paper, new things to share with his friend. The first draft of the letter that he created in his mind might not have made a lot of sense, all of the information tumbling forth as if down a steep slope, but he would worry about making it coherent later.

The first thing he had to do was to ensure that he got an address. He was hoping that Anna would at least know where Jimmy worked, then Thomas would have something to go on. He could telephone his workplace or one of Jimmy's cousins, he could go to London, even...

He found Anna in the boot room just as she was bagging another clean pair of men's shoes and approached her, poised as always.

''Hello, Mr. Barrow,'' she said, a surprised smile tugging at her lips.

''Hello, Mrs. Bates,'' he greeted her back in a tone only slightly mocking, and had a significantly easier time feigning a smile. For the first time in what felt like ages, he felt like smiling.

''What can I do for you?'' she asked kindly.

''I, er,'' he began, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his gaze fixated on a pair of shoes on the table. ''I wanted to ask you about your trip to London... How it went,'' he finished lamely.

Anna gave him a wily smile, naturally, she knew what kind of information he sought. She was clever. Which made her choice of husband even more baffling.  
''It was quite alright,'' she said, ''I ran into Jimmy in Piccadilly.''  
  
Thomas made a show of raising his eyebrows, ''Did you really?'' he asked nonchalantly.

Anna nodded, wiping dabs of mud off another shoe, ''I had a bit of spare time after I delivered a letter,'' she said and set the shoe aside, only to pick another one up. ''I was just going to take a walk and look at the shop windows for a bit when I saw him – I recognized him for his cap,'' she said, grinning as she polished a shoe. Thomas almost felt bad for standing there idly as she worked whilst recounting her encounter with Jimmy.

''He still wears the flat cap?'' Thomas allowed himself to smirk.

''Indeed he does,'' Anna said, laughing. She took a pair of shoes from a bag and redressed them. ''Do you know where that statue – the one of an cherub with a bow – is?'' she asked, her brow furrowing as she struggled to remember its name.

Thomas thought of Piccadilly. ''The statue of Eros?'' he offered. He had collected himself, not a trace of a grin present, phlegmatic once again.

''Yes – yes, that one,'' Anna said. Seemingly finished with her work, she stood behind the table and leaned against it, careful not to get her skirt dirty. ''He was sat down at it, and he was writing something, he had all these bits of paper stacked up,'' she recalled with a smile, ''He was so engrossed in it, he didn't even notice me until I said hello.''

Thomas nodded. ''How –'' he paused, ''How is he?'' he said, looking at Anna.

Anna averted her gaze. ''Well. He says he's doing well,'' she said and finally looked up at Thomas but only to give him a brief smile.  
Thomas' stomach churned with worry. He stepped closer to the table and ran his fingers along the edge of it. He swallowed before rephrasing his question, ''How did he look?''

Anna sighed. ''Honestly... Not good, Mr.Barrow. He was so tired, like he hadn't slept for days, and his eyes were all red... But when I asked him about it, he said he were fine.''

''Has he got troubles at work?'' Thomas asked, frowning. ''Has he even managed to find any work?''  
He was certain that he had never asked Anna that many consequent questions.

''Yes, that he has,'' she said, addressing only the latter of his questions, ''He works not far away from the statue, so he goes there to have his breaks. He had just served breakfast when I met him, he waits tables in a hotel.''

Thomas nodded, relief flooding him. The concern for Jimmy was gnawing at him but at least he knew that Jimmy had a source of income, and a home – which he still had to ask about.

''Did he say anything else?'' _Did he mention me?_

Anna grinned, ''Well,'' she said, ''He did offer me a cigarette. But I couldn't linger.''

''Right,'' Thomas said, giving her a tight smile.

''He did give me something, just before we parted,'' Anna said before Thomas could think of appropriate phrasing for his next question. ''I'll just finish up here and then I'll bring it to you – you see, it's a note with his address. He said he hoped that someone would write to him and though I would love to, I'm afraid that my letters would be quite a bore, and I am ever so busy. You might have more to say to him, anyway,'' she said.

''Thank you,'' Thomas replied quietly.

''Think nothing of it,'' she said with a grin and began examining the shoes on the shelves.

Thomas stepped out of the room and walked away, practically elated. His back and his leg hurt so much he thought he might start to develop a limp as bad as Bates', but a limp wouldn't prevent him from writing, therefore all was right with the world.  
The house was freezing cold and oddly vacant, but he almost hadn't noticed, for his mind definitely wasn't. The only thing that troubled him were the thoughts of concern for Jimmy, and the fact that his worry grew the more he thought of Jimmy and his eyes, bloodshot and sleepless.

* * *

 

Thomas sat at his desk, a piece of paper in front of him, his hand shaking as he held a pen. He attributed the shakiness to nervousness rather than illness, and he wasn't completely wrong in doing so.  He was cold in a room where he should have been hot, and he was craving a cup of tea to warm him up as well as assuage his sore throat – but he was also awfully nervous. His eyes would occasionally slide closed and more than often his entire body shivered in the frost, but the worst thing was the disappointment of not being able to put his thoughts down on paper. How does one put the ineffable into words, anyway?

After a while he became comfortable with writing, then a bit too comfortable as writing a letter registered in his mind as a means of stitching the tear that divided them when Jimmy left – suddenly, he knew he could say all the things he should have said to Jimmy before they parted.  
That was when he stopped writing. It was too late then, some of it had been written and he couldn't bring himself to expunge or scratch out the words that rang as true on that day as on any other since he'd met Jimmy, but he knew he couldn't send the letter either.  
He folded the paper and stuck it in a drawer, determined to write a proper letter after having a cup of tea. He trudged downstairs, passing Bates who looked at him as if death himself was standing there and not a pale underbutler.  
He quickened his pace as much as his state would allow to avoid having to speak a word to Bates and made it to the kitchen where Daisy agreed to make him a cup of tea without ever looking up from her book.

He decided to rest in the servants' hall until he had to serve dinner. In his mind, he reviewed every part of his body that hurt and added his chest to the list. It heaved painfully with every breath he took. For a moment he thought that the air he was breathing must have been foul for his throat felt as if thick mold grew in it. But all of those thoughts dispersed in the face of the most important one – the letter. He felt horrible, but he decided that if he had to go to the doctor's he'd first stop at a post office and post his letter, whatever it entailed. There were some things he needed Jimmy to know.  
The first coughing fit began just as Anna entered the servants' hall. He had been having trouble breathing – like when at luncheon his throat felt scratchy and he held his breath, almost choking as he tried to hide the fact that he had a sore throat – but even when he coughed it had never sounded that bad. He could feel Molesley's eyes on him, and Madge paused on her way to the kitchen to listen worriedly.  
  
''Are you alright?'' Anna asked. He appreciated the worry, but didn't see the point of any of them asking.  
''Fine,'' he said, an answer she should have expected.

''You should have stayed in bed, like you did at breakfast,'' she said as she pulled out a chair and sat next to him. Madge brought him the tea and he nodded his thanks.

He was dumbfounded by Anna's statement, ''Breakfast, I weren't... Nothing,'' he stuttered out.  
  
Anna looked at him, confused. ''Mr. Carson said you were feeling under the weather.'' She gave a disbelieving laugh, ''You act as if you thought none of us'd noticed you weren't there.''

She said it lightheartedly, but her smile faded when she saw his face fall.  
  
''I wish you'd just tell us what's wrong,'' she said quietly.  
  
She got another coughing fit for an answer. Thomas could see her reach into her pocket and draw out a small piece of paper from it. She put the note on the table in front of him before standing up.

''At least tell _him,_ will you?''

* * *

 

 

Thomas had been worried sick, but worrying about Jimmy wasn't what landed him in the hospital. Displaying every symptom of pneumonia is what did.

The previous night, he had been ordered by Mr. Carson to take his cup of tea up to his room and get some rest. He had finished his tea, but raucous coughing had prevented him from falling asleep. He had gone to the kitchen in the middle of the night and dabbled around the first aid kit, but nothing he tried had a balming effect, not even a mix of milk and honey his mother had made for him when he was ill as a child. His state was worsened by the fact that he had strayed from smoking for over twenty-four hours, which was a favour to his lungs but less of one to his nerves.

His state was partially bettered, at least his mental state, by the fact that he could wrap his hand around a piece of Jimmy's writing. He had read the note over and over again, examined it and learned its contents by heart. Before unfolding the paper, he feared that he'd find smudged ink, associating Anna's description of red eyes with floods of tears, but no traces of sadness were present in the slight, cursive lines that wrote out an address to Jimmy's new home.

Obviously torn from a bigger piece of paper, the top of one, it was an uneven shape, ripped at the bottom. But the peculiar thing was that besides the address and the date– written in the top right corner – there were three letters in the bottom left corner. An **_a_** , an **_s_** , and before them what looked like an **_n_** but could have been an **_m_**. The tear cut the ink right in that place so Thomas couldn't see what was written in front of the **_–mas_**. It interested him quite a bit, the fact that somewhere out there, there was more of Jimmy's writing. It made him happy, even if Jimmy's words weren't meant for him to read.  
He wondered if Jimmy kept a diary. It was one of the thoughts that kept him from thinking about his lungs being torn apart by coughing that felt like a thunderstorm inside him.

In the hospital, his thoughts kept going back to his room, the letter concealed in his drawer – he made the final decision of disposing of it once he returned to Downton.  
He couldn't help but think that the _poorly_ written letter would have been on its way to 13a Warner Street – maybe even in Jimmy's hands already – if he hadn't been prevented from sending it by illness.  
Up until that point he was convinced that whatever deity was up there was making fun of him, adding illness upon illness, but at that moment he felt lucky, for he could and would write a better, less obviously lovestruck letter.  
It wasn't good, however, he knew very well what pneumonia entailed, and how he had brought it upon himself by eradicating his immunity with the therapy.  
  
Besides the letter not being sent, another positive thing about finally receiving medical attention was that he was able to get rid of the underlying illness – or at least to stop perceiving it as an illness. He accepted that there was no cure for the way he was, his sexuality was rather a state that he was in – a state he was happy to remain in.  
The first day went by in tossing and turning in his bed, shivering, coughing – with only the company of hospital staff and his thoughts.  
The next day, though they couldn't stay long, Anna and Daisy visited him.  
Daisy brought him some fresh fruit Mrs. Patmore had set aside and Anna asked if there was anything she could do for him. She offered to read to him.  
Thomas asked her if she would write for him.

* * *

**_ May 1st, 1924. _ **

**_ Warner Street 13a, London _ **

_~~My Dear Tho~~ _ ** mas, **

_My Dear Mr. Barrow,_

note to self – find a nice whole piece of paper and copy this properly

_I know that it’s only been a day since I sent my last letter, and there was no possible way you could have replied – you’ve probably only gotten it now, as I am writing this, but I feel there’s so much that I’ve not said that I should have. I just met Anna, and I know she noticed that I look ~~ugly~~ poorly, and I wish to tell you the truth, even though you’re bound to find out from her. I wish I'd written before, I wish I had more time to tell you all the things that should come from me._   
_I feel sad. Empty._   
_I miss ~~you~~ Downton a lot more than I thought I would. My job is fairly nice, my home as well – cousin Irene works as a teacher at the grammar school so I don’t see her often and ~~os~~ Oscar is always studying, but I suppose I should be able to deal with being alone at times. My problem is that I feel alone even when I’m in company. Good company. I really shouldn’t have a ~~ra~~ reason to complain but I’ve ~~ben~~ been so restless these past few days, I had all these thoughts, I was unable to sleep at all. It’s not doing my looks any good, and I don’t know what to do. I know this sounds a bit like I’m writing to a ladies’ magazine with a problem of mine, but I promise I just want to be honest. I don’t expect you to come up with a solution. I’m lying – I always think you have a solution, mostly because you do, but it’s fine if you don’t. This feels like you’re listening, and that is more than I could ever ask for._

_Meanwhile, so much is going on with me. I made a friend at the hotel, she works as a maid. Her name is Florence. I told her all about Downton and the fun times we used to have. We go for walks around London sometimes. You wouldn’t believe the things I see._   
_Oscar told me to stop being pretentious. I let him proof-read my letter and he told me to stop calling myself stupid if I’m going to use words like ‘loquacious’. I apologize for being falsely humble, or something. I’m ~~se~~ still positive that you could write a letter ten times better than I ~~could~~ ever could. (I’m not forcing you or anything, but I hope you do.)_

_Sincerely yours, Jimmy_

_P.S. I’ve been reconsidering some things, for the most part. I think my past’s the root of my sadness, or at least Oscar thinks so._   
_I wish I could go back and fix it. I was stupid. (I wonder if Oscar will want me to erase that. I might not show him this letter.) But I don’t wish to end a letter on such a bitter note. I hope you’re doing well, I truly do. It’s the future that matters, and I only wish the best for you._

_P.P.S. I hate to have caused you so much pain in the past. ~~I wish Alfred had never walked in on us.~~_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, please tell me what you thought of it :)


	3. May 5th / May 6th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally! i'm sorry it took me this long to update, your comments on the last one were so nice! <3 and all the kudos make me think that i can write, amazing

** Chapter three **

 

''Would you like me to put the date down or would that be too formal?'' Anna asked, unscrewing the lid of a black pen. She was sitting on a wooden chair at the end of the bed, a book on her lap underneath a few sheets of blank paper.

Thomas was sitting up in bed, his back against the wall.

''Uh,'' he shifted, suddenly uncertain if it was a good idea to call Anna after all. Doctor Clarkson had given them only half an hour of time together – which seemed brilliant at first. It would have been enough for a concise first letter – he was hoping Anna would serve the purpose of censoring the letter in a way – filtered through her, it'd be short but sufficient, written quickly and without any major proclamations of love whilst still retaining any necessary or interesting information. So it had seemed, but before they actually began writing. That was the thing, they couldn't seem to begin – for example, Anna would wonder why Thomas insisted on calling him James and not Jimmy, and Thomas was at a loss for words. The things he thought would sound proper sounded silly when he said them out loud to another person. The embarrassment was worth it, though. He'd rather have felt embarrassed then, than have suffered Jimmy thinking of his letters as silly later.

''May the sixth, Downton Park-?'' he began in his raspy voice, testing the words and deciding he liked how they hung in the air. It was hard to go wrong with the time and place.

But apparently not impossible.

''Hold on – _Downton_?''

Thomas swallowed thickly and looked down at his hands. The act reminded him of the fact that he was capable of writing himself, and he liked to think that there wasn't a crying need for Anna, but even with all of that – he realised he liked having her there. He needed a friend, and she had seemed the most amenable – perhaps she needed a friend as well. It was curious – how his thoughts drifted off in a completely different direction when he felt embarrassed, as if he were trying to save himself from the feeling.

''Don't tell me you weren't planning on telling him you're in hospital,'' she said, obviously disappointed.

He picked at the covers. ''Don't want him to worry, I suppose,'' he muttered, the _'Why should you care?'_ audible in his voice.

Anna's lips tightened, ''Well. While I understand, you have to tell him. You'd want to know if it were him.''

Thomas nodded, ''Right – and I will. So just...'' he made a long pause. ''Dear Jimmy,'' he began and Anna scribbled it down with a smile. She looked up at him when she was finished, urging him to go on.

* * *

 

 

'' _Dear Daisy, the weather in London is almost as beautiful as my girlfriend_ -''

Jimmy snorted, ''You can't have started off with that?''

Alfred frowned, '' Course I did. What are you on about?'' he took another gulp of his ale as Jimmy shook his head, laughing.

'' _My job is amazing and I can only hope that things are as good back at Downton_ ,'' Alfred continued, ''Though there's no way they could ever be,'' he added to Jimmy, the sound that followed more a guffaw than a laugh.

Jimmy gave him a sour smile, ''Have you got that entire letter memorised?''

Alfred shrugged, ''Yeah. Liked the way I write so I read it a few times, and my memory is brill-''

''Yeah, yeah. Well, I'm sure Daisy will love to hear all about it – but I don't want to hear a word about Downton. Change the topic, I don't want to bloody think of it. Cheers,'' he said sardonically, and gulped his ale down.

''God, don't I know it,'' Alfred agreed wisely, ''I don't miss the place at all. Must be boring as bloody heck up there,'' he continued talking in spite of Jimmy's request to talk about anything else.

''Hm,'' Jimmy agreed, hoping it would shut Alfred up, irritated that Alfred spoke of Downton in such a way and suddenly unable to remember why he even agreed to go to the pub with Alfred.

Alfred leaned back in his chair, ''Glad we got out of there, to be hon-''

''And how do you know that things are _so bad_ back there?'' Jimmy snapped at him.

Alfred just grinned, ''Alright, alright... Don't get your knickers in a twist. Bound to be more interesting when the new footmen arrive, anyway.''

''What?'' Jimmy asked, Alfred managing to get his attention for the first time - possibly ever.

''Well there's bound to be two new lads taken on! With old Moles all alone...''

''There's Thomas,'' Jimmy paused, ''Mr. Barrow,'' saying the man's name, no matter how many times he did it, always seemed like the most bitter-sweet experience.

''Suppose there is,'' Alfred said, ''Though he's one of the biggest reasons I were glad to get out of there.''

''Yeah?'' Jimmy swallowed. He suspected that Alfred expected him to agree but he knew that even trying to get the words out would have been futile.  
Thomas was the biggest reason Jimmy was sorry to have left Downton, but the more he thought of it, the more he wondered if he should have been glad to part with the man – for there was no accounting as to what he would have done if he'd stayed.  
His rendezvous with Lady Anstruther proved to be unsuccessful in more than one way, but successful in having proved to him that the female form still held some appeal – though he realised that no form was appealing as a certain under butler's.  
He had been making plans of sneaking into Thomas' room the following night – if Thomas would have had him.  
He was glad to have left. _He was._ Otherwise he would have done a number of stupid things, things others perceived as utterly wrong, things because of which the bloke sitting next to him would have sought the assistance of police officers, if he only knew Jimmy was thinking about them, let alone anything else.  
It made Jimmy even more cross with the rest of the human race.

''Look, I should be getting back home. My aunt said she'd need my help with something, anyway-'' Jimmy stood up, '' You going to stay a while?''

''Aye,'' Alfred said with a smirk, ''Think that cheeky thing over there's giving me the eye,'' he said, attempting a wink which ended up looking more like a blink and giving the girl what he thought must have been the most dazzling smile. He hadn't been wrong, the girl _was_ looking at him, but in an obvious alcoholic haze.

Jimmy didn't try to hide his repulsion, ''Don't you have a girl?'' he asked.

''Well, yeah, _Jimbo_ ,'' he said, leaning forward, swayed by the alcohol, his eyes on the girl. ''But us men, we're allowed to have a bit of fun...''

''We're really not,'' Jimmy muttered, '' Plus, she's right hammered – just look at the state of her.''

''It don't matter.''

''You'd go with a girl drunk off her face?''

''Yeah.''

''That's disgusting.''

''Oh, come off it. It's not often that girls get drunk, even if they are getting more modern and all that... And not everyone gets opportunities like our fair-haired beauty James over here...'' Alfred rolled his eyes, ''You take advantage when you can.''

''You're disgusting.''

''I'll see you tomorrow, Jimmy.''

''Yeah, fine... See you. Let me know if Daisy writes back. When did you even post the letter?''

Alfred counted the days on his fingers. ''Ehh... Two – no - yesterday?''

''Right,'' Jimmy nodded, '' Well, good night.'' He cast one last glance at the drunken girl before departing.

He wasn't really heading home – in fact, he had told his aunt that he would have been back the following morning. The sky was overcast, even in the dark he could see that the clouds were gathering, but luckily he didn't have to walk far and was positive that he'd arrive to his destination before it started raining.

He was headed to his friend Florence's. Florence, who lived near the pub and Florence, whom, when he arrived in front of her block of flats, he saw snogging another girl.

He stood stiff, sober, and utterly confused – across the street from where he had just seen two women kiss. The kiss was visibly passionate – urgent, and quite stupid. While Jimmy knew that he was the only one around, he knew that it could have also been anyone else but him standing there, even if it was near midnight on Sunday the fourth.

He sauntered across the street and got to the door just as it swung closed behind the two. He thought he would have to rush in and up the stairs to catch up with Florence, but instead ran into her kissing the other girl in the corridor.  
When they heard the front door, they parted – or at least tried to.

''Oh, thank God. It's Jimmy,'' Florence said breathlessly and stepped closer to him. ''Hello love,'' she greeted, heedlessly.

The other girl seemed to panic a bit, ''He won't tell on us, will he?'' she asked.

''No,'' confirmed Florence with a knowing smile, ''Not our Jimmy,'' she said after making her way back into the girl's arms. She put a lock of hair behind the girl's ear lovingly.

 _What was that supposed to mean?_ Of course he wouldn't tell, she was right, _but it was the way she said it_.  
He _could_ keep a secret, maybe that's what she meant.

''Right,'' the girl sighed in relief, ''Alright. I'm Alexandra, by the way. I prefer Sandra, but I suppose you can call me Alexa, or whatever you want, really.''

''Oh, alright – Sandra,'' Jimmy repeated as if to confirm it. ''I'm Jimmy,'' he said and stuck his hand out for her to shake. ''Not really the best idea to be kissing in such public places,'' he teased, eager to charm even the girls that couldn't be interested in him.

''Ah, I know,'' Florence said wistfully, still playing with the other girl's blond hair, ''But I haven't seen her in so long...'' She pressed a kiss to Sandra's cheek, ''Though I was going to introduce you two in a more appropriate way, over dinner, upstairs. Come on.''  
As soon as she said it, she took Sandra's hand and pulled her along as she began climbing the narrow stairs. The interior of the staircase reminded Jimmy of the tube station, dirty tiles lining the walls.

In the flat, they had dinner. Toast and apricot jam, on the recliner. Jimmy sat beside Sandra and Florence sat on the floor, at her feet.

Florence and Sandra tried to include him in the conversation, but it would always steer away from him, their words falling into step, a dance familiar only to the two of them. He wasn't mad at them. He too had once known the joy of sharing everything with someone. Well, almost everything. He recognised it in the way they talked - the inside jokes, the laughter, the snark. The making fun of friends and colleagues whom they deemed to be absolute idiots but deep down were fond of them. He just  listened, quiet, a wistful smile on his lips, until around one in the morning when he was directly spoken to.

 

"And how's your boyfriend, handsome?" Florence asked, scooping up a bit of marmalade from the jar with her fingers.

 

"Oh, I didn’t know you had a boyfriend!" Sandra said excitedly, placing a hand on Jimmy's arm.

 

"I really don't," he said, cheeks turning pink.

 

"Come on, Jimmy," Florence said, leaning back against Sandra's legs, "No need for you to be shy with us. I mean if anyone understands, then it's the wife and I..."

 

Sandra's expression softened and she leaned down to kiss the top of Florence's head. Jimmy's eyebrows knitted in confusion.

 

"You two are married?" Jimmy asked, confused and indignant, wondering how two women could have pulled that off.

 

"We like to think we are," Sandra elaborated.

 

"The missus proposed just last week," Florence said, and Jimmy's gaze instinctively fell down to her jam-covered fingers. Sandra seemed to notice.

 

"Didn't really have money for rings," she said, sounding apologetic.

 

Jimmy shook his head. "No," he frowned, "It doesn't matter. I think that's beautiful. Congratulations," he said sincerely.

 

"Thank you, Jimmy," Florence said, her eyes crinkling atop a wide smile, "Anyway! Tell us about _Thomas_ ," she said the name suggestively.

 

Jimmy wanted nothing more than to do that - to tell her how lovely Thomas had been, how he helped him, stood up for him, supported him.  How his face seemed to light up when he knew Jimmy was interested in whatever he was talking about and how Jimmy's whole world lit up when Thomas paid attention to his words. He also wished to speak about the fact that he missed Thomas immensely- how London had opened his eyes to a whole new world but it meant nothing if he couldn't share it with Thomas. And how, even with all these brilliant people around him, he felt permanently lonely. He had made a significant number of friends, but he had no one to call his own. And the thought of finding that in any person besides Thomas felt sickening. But what really took the biscuit was that no matter how bad it made him feel, he didn't want to get over Thomas, didn't want to let the feelings go - and knew better than to speak of it.

 

"There's really not that much to tell."

 

Florence scoffed. "Do you remember the day we met?" she asked him.

 

Jimmy narrowed his eyes. "Yes?"

 

"I could tell you every detail from that day."

 

"Impressive," Jimmy said acerbically.

 

Florence laughed. "Shut up, Kent, I'm trying to tell you something."

 

"I was sitting in your spot," Jimmy said – he'd heard her tell the story already.

 

"You were sitting in my spot!" she confirmed, "Right under the statue of the god of love, and you were stubbing your damned cigarettes out on the marble stone and I hated you in that moment-"

 

"Which you came to tell me-"

 

"Stop interrupting, village-boy," she said and looked right into his eyes. "I came to tell you, yes, but I also noticed your stupid crying eyes, your cheeks salty all the way up to your ears, snivelling on the-"

 

The smile vanished from Jimmy's face. Usually, she never got that far when recounting the events of the day.

 

"Sorry," Florence said, "Shite, Jimmy, I'm sorry-"

 

"It's fine," he mumbled, "It's true," he said with a shrug.

 

"Still, could have phrased it better," she said quietly, "Anyway. How do you think I know his name? No matter how much you tried to hide the paper or how many times you'd crossed it out - _My Dear Thomas_ was everywhere. It's not dear Thomas that made you cry?"

 

"No," Jimmy shook his head. _It's the lack of him._

 

"I never even asked what you were crying about."

 

"I was daft enough to think that you hadn't even noticed, so thank you," he said. And if she had asked, he wouldn't have told her the truth anyway.

 

Florence nodded, and Jimmy could feel Sandra shift beside him.

"What's the matter with you two?" she asked irritably, "Jimmy, why were you crying?"

 

Jimmy sighed and looked down at his hands. "I've been having a lot on my mind, you know? There's things about myself that I can't understand. These... _feelings_."

 

Florence swallowed and set the jam jar on the floor, "Do these feelings have anything to do with _him_?"

 

Jimmy nodded.

 

"Oh."

 

Sandra took Jimmy's hand, "I need you to know that it's nothing to cry about."

 

"Well, maybe tears of joy..." Florence added and Sandra nudged her with her foot.

 

"Exactly," she said with a grin, "If you prefer men to women, no matter what anyone tells you-"

 

"But I don't," Jimmy said, and was quick to elaborate, "I... I think I like both. Equally. That's the queer thing - I always thought people were either  _that way_ or they weren't."

 

"So you're attracted to _people_ , is that really so queer?" Florence asked sagaciously.

 

"Currently... Just one. Singular," he'd never felt anything as liberating as saying those words out loud. "But I botched everything up. He's miles away."

 

"And you've written a letter to him?" Florence asked.

 

"Yes. Two, actually..."

 

"Want to write another one?" the question wasn't even completely out of her when she stood up and went to the dresser where, out of the top left drawer, she pulled out a pen and a few sheets of paper.

 

"You serious?" Jimmy asked with a smile.

 

" _My Dear Thomas_ ," she enunciated the words, making a show of raising her eyebrows as she brought the pen down onto the paper.

 

"Give it here," Jimmy said, laughing. ''And it's Mr Barrow to you.''

 

"I should turn in," Sandra said with a smile. "Working first shift tomorrow after having worked second today is not good, but unavoidable if I plan on keeping my job." She stood up and gave Florence a kiss.

 

"I'll just be a second, love," Florence said and smiled at her.

"Right," she said as she handed Jimmy the pen and paper and sat next to him.

 

" _Mr. Barrow_?" Florence asked, watching him as he began writing, painfully slowly as trying if to have the most perfect, intelligible handwriting, "Why do you-"

 

"I guess it's more appropriate," he said with a shrug, "He was my superior at the house, so I thought..."

 

"But you don't work under him anymore. Honestly, think about the things you're going to say in this letter."

 

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, "I'm going to say something, am I?" he teased.

 

"Of course you are, you idiot. Don't have to say it outright, if you think he's not interested -"

 

"Oh, he's interested," Jimmy said with a smile.

 

Florence stood up, " _Right._ I'm going to bed, and I hope to god that you finally come to your senses and just tell him. _Both of you, bloody unbelievable..._ "

Jimmy nodded, "I promise not to disappoint, alright?"

Florence's expression softened, "Good. You've no problem with sleeping here?"

 

"Nah, told you, I'll do just fine."

 

"Right. Good night."

 

"Night," Jimmy said.

 

After finishing the letter, which took him less time than he had expected it to, he tried to fall asleep. The recliner was comfortable enough, but he didn't sleep a wink. He wondered if, when they finally met again, Thomas would kiss him the way he saw Florence kiss Sandra.

* * *

 

_Dear Jimmy,_

_I apologise for the fact that the usual letter-writing form decrees that one talks about himself first, for the news of my state of being is forlorn to say the least. I'm afraid I've been taken ill, and quite badly. I'm in hospital where Anna is helping me write this letter, which makes everything sound worse than it is, but she is here more as a friend than as aid._   
_The doctors have done a myriad of tests and they're positive that it's a respiratory disease. However, I do not wish to worry you, so know that I'm doing all right, all things considered._   
_I miss you. Even Anna keeps telling me that she knows she's a poor substitute for a best friend._

_The workings of the house are being managed smoothly, as I'm told. Molesley has taken an interest in Daisy's studies, and he's taken an even bigger interest in Miss Baxter. The downstairs is a bit vacant, so Carson's planning on taking on a new footman. To be honest, I can't bear the thought of anyone filling your place._

_Speaking of footmen, Daisy got a letter from Alfred, can you imagine? Though I suppose he's Mr Nugent, the chef, now.  
Makes me think of the time he tried to flambé toast._

_  
Things don't look as if they've changed around here – Mr Carson is, as always, just on the verge of asking Mrs Hughes for her hand in marriage. Lady Mary's got countless suitors, Lady Edith is sad, and if his wife wasn't sitting here, I'd say that Mr Bates is still a sour-faced -_

_But nothing's the same without you. I must admit that I've, quite foolishly, turned around to look for you more than one time when I had the desire to poke fun at someone or something, before I remembered that I'd botched everything up._

_I should have fought harder for you to stay. Then again, you might be doing well in London, which would make me a rather selfish –_

_I only hope that you're doing well. I truly do._

_Gladly your friend,_

_Thomas_

_P.S. Gillingham **is** a lucky tyke! A flat in the middle of London, I swear..._

_P.P.S. I hope you've found my note. It shouldn't have been such a hard task, I didn't do a great job of concealing it in your case. I partly wish to apologise – I'd intended it as a jest, but I suppose it is something to remember me by._

 

-Dear Jimmy, this is Anna writing to you – I'm sorry, but I had to censor some bits... Don't fancy Mr Barrow calling himself an arse.   
And... I think that he misses you more than he lets on. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he felt so bad he made himself ill after you left. Might not be my place to be saying it, but I feel that you must know.  
Like Mr Barrow, I hope that you're doing well, and I hope that you have time to write back to us.

* * *

 

 

''What's that?'' Bates asked his wife, nodding at the envelope in her hand.

 

''Oh, just a letter Thomas asked me to post for him.''

 

Bates nodded with a smile, ''I can do that for you if you like,'' he offered, ''I have to make my way down to the village today, anyway.''

 

''Would you?'' Anna asked, beaming, ''Thank you.''

 

''Think nothing of it,'' he said and kissed her forehead. It was then that she noticed her husband was holding an envelope himself, but it had a stamp – meaning it must have arrived earlier that morning. She decided to ask him about it later in the day.

 

* * *

 

_May 5th, 1924_

_24c Rosebery Ave, Finsbury_

_My dear Thomas,_

_I've almost sorted these unconventional feelings out, and I want to share my happiness with you, because it'll mean twice as much if I do. If you've received my previous letters, you might guess what I'm getting at (I realise now that I wasn't as discreet as I initially thought I was). And if you didn't (I'm changing my post office - I think the clerk in this one hates me), I can't really say it outright, but I'd like you to know that I've realised you and I are more alike than I thought._

_I still miss you like mad. On your next day off, you must come to London. I won't take no for an answer._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Jimmy_

_P.S. A short letter again – but only because I'm hoping to talk to you face to face soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please tell me if you liked it, or if you'd want me to include something in the next one or something like that :))


	4. May 5th b-side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. im sorry for being so late, but.. i don't really have an excuse except school still pls forgive me

** Chapter four **

 

 _''A bullnose Morris!’’_ Jimmy could hear Sandra's incredulous voice.

He groaned and opened one eye, peering up to recognise the dim ambience of the room – any source of light was obviously man-made, and when he turned his head he could see the lamp that produced it. It was still dark outside, which he noted when he looked past the lamp and into the morning.

'' _An actual, brand new Oxford Morris..._ '' Sandra mumbled. Jimmy sat up on the recliner and stretched. The voice that woke him came from the kitchen, a room which was also the source of a long plume of smoke which he saw unfurl from the crack of the open door – yet another source of light.  
  
 _''I thought you'd have cared more about the actual people harmed, you know, you being a nurse and all...''_ came Florence's teasing reply.  
  
 _''I do, genuinely – I just think every aspect of it is interesting... car crashes are as fascinating as they're sad, aren't they?''_  
  
Jimmy stood up and stretched, yawning quietly. He listened to the conversation as he made his way to the kitchen.

_''Whatever you say, love. To be honest, unless I'm inside one, cars just frighten me,''  Florence admitted, ''But then again, I'm wary of bloody bicycles on the street...''_

He could hear Sandra giggle, and then sigh, almost wistfully. _''I know... But. I've worked on all sorts of injuries, you know, to work on a car crash would be amazing! 'Course  I'd never wish it upon anyone, the rich folk who drive too fast and batter their shiny automobiles – even they don't deserve it... But it's interesting.''_

 _''Yeah,''_   Jimmy pushed the door open a bit and could see Florence grin as she spoke, ''Though I don't understand them driving fast... Nice to know they've found yet another way to kill themselves.''

When Jimmy stepped into the room, Florence looked up at him from where she was sitting and Sandra, who had just been putting the kettle on, turned around to face him.

''Morning!'' Sandra greeted with a smile. He wondered how someone could be so elated to be up before the crack of dawn.

''Morning,'' Florence said, less enthusiastically, but nonetheless with a playful smirk that seemed to permanently grace her lips. ''Good to see you're up. Was it the lamp? I turned it on just for you,'' she said as she stubbed out her cigarette.

''Mornin', and yeah _– thanks_ ,'' he said, shaking his head.

''You don't mean it, but you will, once I tell you what I've got in store for us!'' she said and plucked another cigarette from the pack.  
Jimmy craved a cigarette.  
  
''Fag?'' she offered.

He declined; it wasn't the brand that Thomas smoked.

''Suit y'self,'' Florence mumbled as she lit another one.

Sandra pulled up a chair from the corner and smiled at Jimmy, who thanked her and sat down.

Florence drummed her fingers on the table impatiently.

Jimmy looked at her, and then at Sandra's sleepy face as she stared at the heating kettle.

''Have you two had any sleep at all?'' he asked, his gaze flicking between the two of them.

Both cracked a smile.

''Anyway,'' Florence spoke to Jimmy, but still held Sandra's gaze,  ''Aren't you excited about today?'' she finally turned sideways to face him.

Jimmy blinked and furrowed his brow. ''Today?'' he asked, his voice still rough from sleep.

''Mhm,'' she mumbled around a cigarette. Much like Thomas, Jimmy noticed, she took her time talking when she smoked. Inhale, exhale, smirk – and then talk; ''We're going to church.''

''What?''

''Friar O'Raffey will be expecting me,'' she said, ''Daily, I struggle to find the path of God...'' she said in a mockingly sad tone.

Jimmy looked slightly disturbed, but snorted when the smirk returned to Florence's lips.  
''Haven't been to church in ages,'' Jimmy said, pondering it.

''Well, you're in luck. Because my father insists I go to church if I want to keep the flat, '' she said, visibly annoyed. ''God, I hate to complain, because really, I've got everything I need. But it's a shit life, being dependent on my dad...  When at the Regent, I see all these people born into these fulfilling lives, full of opportunities, in London for a rendezvous or just because they've got money pouring out of their ears so they drag their idle arses over here – life just seems unfair, doesn't it? Surely I'm allowed to complain. For a woman with no special education or skills, I'm not exactly the cream of London. And I daren't imagine what would happen if people _knew_ about me.''

Jimmy nodded. ''Does your father, uh, _know_?'' he asked.

''No,'' Florence said, ''And he never will, if I plan on staying alive.''

Jimmy nodded again. Wordlessly, Sandra joined them and placed three cups of tea on the table.

''O'Raffey knows, though. Just because I don't complain to him directly, I do like to tell him how my wife and I enjoy all the joys of married life. He can't tell anyone, out of fear of God, excommunication or whatever it is.''

  
''She doesn't like to complain,'' Sandra said with a smirk and Florence shot her a glare, after which Sandra giggled.

''S'alright to complain,'' Jimmy said with a grin, ''Though I don't like to do it much either.''

Florence took a sip of tea and nodded. ''Right, right. But listen – how could I not be angry every once in a while? I can't kiss my wife in the middle of the street. I would very much like to. I've never really thought that touching in general was something I'd like to do in public. But with Sandra, it seems appropriate, and it seems appropriate anywhere.''

''It does,'' Sandra said with a smile, bashfully looking down at her fingers, which traced the circular top of her cup.

''There are real criminals going unpunished out there,'' Florence continued, ''And no one seems to care, but I – I could be arrested for loving her. Most would like to see me arrested.''

It hit Jimmy like a train – the statement. And while Sandra teased Florence on how _poetically_ she'd put it, it put things into perspective for him. For example, he thought he'd understood Thomas' acerbic behaviour toward others before, but not until Florence said it did he really see it.  
Jimmy _knew_ Thomas.  
Thomas was a passionate man, a hopeless romantic, and the joy of loving someone openly was forbidden to him. Jimmy himself couldn't have claimed that he'd have acted any differently at Downton if he had known about himself before, couldn't claim that he wouldn't have been slightly malicious as well to someone like Bates. Bates, with his obscure past and dangerous demeanour,  was arguably preferred to Thomas, simply because he had a lovely wife.

It also made him wonder what sort of life lay ahead of him. The past few days, he'd been completely absorbed in thoughts of sharing the rest of his life with Thomas - in the end they would always end up together, Jimmy didn't want to consider anything else– but there was a possibility of it being a life spent hiding. There was no possibility of it being an unhappy life, if it was one spent with Thomas, but the unfairness of it all did make him quite indignant.

He downed his tea, half-heartedly listened to the continuation of the conversation about cars, and thought about his letter. He couldn't wait to post it. Life seemed brilliant when he thought about it, when he thought about the man it was addressed to.  
The more he thought of him, the more he felt for him, and the more he hoped for an immediate encounter and beginning of a life together. His mind would wander to all sorts of places if he didn't restrain it, but fuelled by the display of married love before him – simple acts such as Sandra fishing tea leaves out of Florence's cup – he had no desire for restraint. Love swelled and bubbled up inside his chest, and he couldn't wait to pour it all into spoken words – he really needed to see Thomas, and soon.  
It had also seemed curious to him, when he first encountered Florence and later Sandra – the fact that they found each other, both interested in the same thing when all the girls Jimmy'd met thus far had been interested in boys - _or as he liked to think of it - him_.  
He didn't think that two people of that sort who fit each other so well could find one another in a _cruel and unforgiving_ world. When his feelings for Thomas hadn't been as prominent and had gone unrecognised by him, he'd always thought that Thomas would have to settle. Thomas could love, that was apparent, but Jimmy feared that Thomas would fall for the first man who claimed to be interested in him, and love even if he wasn't loved adequately in return.

To see Florence and Sandra, two people who'd found each other, only reminded Jimmy of the fact that he was the one who could love Thomas adequately, one who did love him in a way that was more than adequate, and he hoped that there was still time to prove it. Because he had found Thomas and Thomas had found him and the concept of settling down with anyone else seemed entirely abstract to him – the concept of there being a greater love than the one he felt for Thomas.

-

At a quarter before five, the three of them began their walk to the British Museum, where Dr. Lewis, a clinical clerk and a colleague of Sandra's, was to pick them up with his automobile. Jimmy had never ridden in an automobile, and he was quite excited to tell Thomas about it in his next letter.

As they walked, they walked past a few people, most of them tired, some of them frantic. Jimmy remembered Downton, where on most days, if you'd walked outside even a minute before five, you'd feel as if you were the only person on earth.  
  
When they were in sight of the museum, Sandra approached one of the two cars parked there.

''Dr Lewis!'' she said as she tapped on the glass. He reached over the passenger seat and opened the door.

''Good morning, Sandra,'' he said with a chuckle and pushed the door open.  
  
She slid into the car just as Jimmy and Florence approached, ''We brought a friend, if that's alright?'' she asked quietly, sounding almost child-like in the man's presence.  
  
''Of course,'' he said with a smile. Florence opened the door and raised her eyebrows at Jimmy, waiting for him to climb in.  
  
Jimmy only saw the man's face once he was seated on the comfortable back seat of the jet black car, and the man turned around to introduce himself.

''I'm Dr Gerald Lewis,'' the man said, extending a hand. Jimmy accepted it and shook it as Florence climbed into the car as well.

''Jim- James Kent,'' he said, trying to appear serious, possibly older than he was. ''How'd you do,'' he said confidently, but the fact that he was in the presence of a doctor who owned an automobile was quite overwhelming.

''How do you do,'' the man replied and turned around to start the ignition. Jimmy clutched the windowsill – _is it a windowsill, if it's on a car?_ – and sat up straight.  
''So, Miss Adamowicz?" Dr Lewis asked as he carefully manoeuvred the vehicle, "Where to? Church of Saint Paul the Apostle?"  
  
Jimmy was going to be sick, and not only because Dr Lewis addressed Florence as Miss Adamowicz, and she replied.  
"Lovely of you to ask, Doctor, but we couldn’t," she said, "Just at the hospital will be lovely."  
  
"All right," he said with a smile.  
  
  
Jimmy was told that _riding in a car_ wouldn't have been a lot different than riding in a coach, and it certainly didn’t look a lot different from the outside, _but it was_. He could see Florence smirk out of the corner of his eye, but thought that _maybe_ if he pretended he didn't notice her noticing his fear, he'd be able to retain some of his dignity.  
 _Good thing we're on our way to a hospital._

''B- Beautiful car,'' he stuttered out, barely stopping himself from shrieking as they ran into a bump on the road.  
  
''Thank you, young man,'' Dr Lewis said sincerely as he made a left turn. Jimmy's knuckles whitened as he clutched the door.  
  
''It is such a beautiful car,'' Sandra said, running her fingers all over the interior.  
  
''Here we go...'' Florence muttered with a smile.  
  
''A 1923 Ford, model T,'' Sandra said, ''Jimmy, did you know that this car has optional demountable rim wheels?’’ Sandra asked.  
  
  
“Does-" Jimmy cleared his throat, "Does it really?” he asked, feeling as if he was the thing that was going to demount – _surely, he’ll fall out of a window , they were going too fast-_

“Yes!" Sandra said and leaned back as well, looking at Jimmy over her shoulder, "Cars are just the best, aren’t they?"  
  
A deep breath was all she got in reply.  
  
  
Jimmy found that looking out the window into the warm morning, London enveloped in grey mist, seemed to have a calming effect. It was embarrassing, the way he reacted, he knew, but the initial shock passed quickly and all that was left were traces of excitement. He knew that Thomas had ridden in a car before, his journey to America with Lord Grantham probably only one of the occasions he'd tried this peculiar method of travel.  
  
''Finchley Memorial Hospital,'' Dr Lewis announced and pulled up in front of the building, just as Jimmy was beginning to enjoy the car ride.  
He palpated the inside of the car door until he found the handle that opened it and got out, standing on wobbly feet.  
  
''Thank you,'' Jimmy said to the dark-skinned man and reached out to shake his hand. They all promptly thanked the doctor. He warmly accepted the thanks, and wouldn't hear of any ideas about favours being repaid.

That was when they parted, and Jimmy briskly followed Florence on her way to the church.  
  
''The readings begin at half past five,'' she said, ''We should hurry.''  
  
''Who gives sermon at five in the bloody morning?'' Jimmy asked.  
  
''Half past, and it's not exactly sermon. O'Raffey lets the nuns read a bit; it takes half an hour at most, each morning. It's open to the public, but there's rarely anyone there – my father said to go to church, and he checks if I’ve been attending with his old friar friend - but he never said  _when_ to attend...''  
  
Jimmy nodded, ''Devious, Miss Adamowicz.''  
  
It was the first time he saw Florence blush in embarrassment, ''Right, about that. Florence Adams just seemed simpler than Kwieta Adamowicz – My father told me to choose from Flora and Florence, if I wanted to make my life any easier here. Neither of us were too happy about it, but I suppose you have to learn to assimilate. ''  
  
''But Kwieta is such a beautiful name,'' Jimmy protested.  
  
Florence laughed, ''You're saying it wrong, which only serves to prove my point.''

''I can learn to say it right,'' Jimmy said.  
  
''Sometimes you say the nicest things, Kent,'' Florence said with a smile, ''And while you're free to call me Kwieta, I think I'll keep being Florence. I quite like the name, though I suppose I must. It's helped with my work... It's just the way things are. I can't kiss Sandra in the middle of Piccadilly, can't ask them to use my real name, but I manage, and I definitely do not want to complain.''

Jimmy nodded. They walked in silence until they reached the church, and sat in the last pew until a mousy girl climbed onto the small podium and cracked a Bible open.

"Reading _Acts 7:51-8:1,"_  she announced.

 _“ ‘You stubborn people, with uncircumcised hearts and ears. You are always resisting the Holy Spirit, just as your ancestors used to do. Can you name a single_ [ _prophet_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=9674) _your ancestors never persecuted? They killed those who foretold the coming of the Upright One, and now you have become his betrayers, his murderers. In spite of being given the_ [ _Law_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=6916) _through angels, you have not kept it.’ They were infuriated when they heard this, and ground their teeth at him. But Stephen, filled with the Holy Spirit, gazed into_ [ _heaven_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=5593) _and saw the_ [ _glory_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=5201) _of God, and_ [ _Jesus_ ](http://www.catholic.org/clife/jesus) _standing at God's_ [ _right_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=10046) _hand…"_

 _"... ‘Look! I can see_[ _heaven_](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=5593) _thrown open,' he said, 'and the Son of_[ _man_](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=7463) _standing at the_[ _right_](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=10046) _hand of God.’ "_  
  
  
Jimmy listened attentively.  


 _"...All the members of the council shouted out and stopped their ears with their hands; then they made a concerted rush at him, thrust him out of the city and stoned him…"  
" ...The witnesses put down their clothes at the feet of a young _[_man_](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=7463) _called Saul. As they were stoning him, Stephen said in invocation, 'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.' Then he knelt down and said aloud, 'Lord, do not hold this_[ _sin_](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=10849) _against them.' And with these words he fell asleep…"_  
  
"Is what we’re feeling wrong?" Jimmy asked, loud enough for only Florence to hear him. She raised her head and looked at him.  
  
"Jimmy…" she whispered, when she saw that his eyes were slightly damp. Needless to say, she knew exactly what he meant.

 _"...Saul approved of the killing. That day a bitter_[ _persecution_](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=9187) _started against the church in Jerusalem, and everyone except the_[ _apostles_](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=933) _scattered to the country districts of Judaea and Samaria."  
_ The girl, nun, who read it, read almost mechanically, in a monotonous voice. And yet the voice invoked images as vivid as if they’d been spoken by the best of demagogues.  
  
"No, no, - Jimmy, look at me," Florence said fiercely. Jimmy felt silly for crying, but the biblical verses had only served to remind him of his childhood, life in an Anglican village where everyone called upon the Bible when it was turn to persecute anyone even slightly different.  
 _"God doesn’t love their sort,”_ Jimmy remembered his father saying.  
  
“Jimmy," she said, softly.  
  
"He doesn’t love our sort," Jimmy said, seemingly resigned. At the podium, another nun fumbled with the Bible as she sought for what to read next.  
  
"Of course he does,” Florence said.

 _"Reading Psalms 31:3-4, 6, 7, 8, 17, 21; You are my rock, my rampart; true to your name, lead me and guide me! Draw me out of the net they have spread for me, for you are my refuge; you hate those who serve useless idols; but my trust is in Yahweh:"_  
  
"God is not evil," she said.

"I’m not talking about God, it’s my father,  but, it’s God, too – aren’t we foul, at least in their eyes?" Jimmy stammered, wiping his damp eyes on his sleeve.  
  
Florence shook her head.  
  
 _“ I_[ _will_](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=12332) _delight and rejoice in your faithful love! You, who have seen my misery, and witnessed the miseries of my soul, have not handed me over to the enemy, but have given me freedom to roam at large."_  
  
"Love is love, those who think that what’s in our pants is more important than what’s in our hearts are the ones at fault," she said sagely. She smiled upon seeing Jimmy grin.  
  
"Shouldn’t use that sort of language," he sniffled, “in church."

 _"I call on you, Yahweh, so let disgrace fall not on me, but on the wicked. Let them go down to Sheol in silence, Blessed be_ [ _Yahweh_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=6291) _who works for me miracles of his faithful love (in a fortified city)!"_

"Shut up, Jimmy. Despite what many may think, I’m not entirely opposed to being here and listening... I believe that the Bible is a love letter from God to mankind, and it gets the message across, even if the very human writers did try to impose their opinions onto it... But then again, I find that the Bible is only what you interpret it to be,” she faced the podium again and made the sign of a cross with her thumb on her forehead, lips and heart.

 _" Reading Gospel, John 6:30-35; So they said, ‘What sign_ [ _will_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=12332) _you yourself do, the sight of which_ [ _will_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=12332) _make us believe in you? What work_ [ _will_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=12332) _you do? Our fathers ate_ [ _manna_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=7483) _in the desert; as_ [ _scripture_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=10624) _says: He gave them bread from_ [ _heaven_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=5593) _to eat.’ Jesus answered them: In all_ [ _truth_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=11728) _I tell you, it was not_ [ _Moses_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=8218) _who gave you the bread from heaven, it is my Father who gives you the bread from heaven, the true bread; for the bread of_ [ _God_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=5217) _is the bread which comes down from_ [ _heaven_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=5593) _and gives_ [ _life_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=7101) _to the world. ‘Sir,’ they said, ‘give us that bread always’...’’  
‘’... Jesus answered them: I am the bread of life. No one who comes to me _ [ _will_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=12332) _ever hunger; no one who believes in me_ [ _will_ ](http://www.catholic.org/encyclopedia/view.php?id=12332) _ever thirst."_

 

* * *

 

Jimmy had never cared about God, but he cared about the way God seemed to impact everyone around him. While Florence might have found God's love reassuring, he didn't see a point in it. What was the point of interpreting the Holy Scripture in the correct way if most of the world only sought and propagated the malice in it?

At the hotel, he worked without thinking about it too much, posted the letter at lunch – unfortunately still at the same post office – and waited for Alfred by the statue of Eros. Alfred had posted his letter as well, and he couldn't stay long. He announced that a few telephones had been installed in his neighbourhood, and Jimmy, whose building had a telephone, asked him to call as soon as Daisy replied.  


11 days later

  
Jimmy spent the days leading up to the sixteenth fairly ordinarily, though he was feeling particularly lonely, as he didn't feel like going to the statue to smoke or write any letters. He saw Florence only in passing, in the hotel corridors, and Alfred was seemingly always busy.

 

It was on the 16th, a day when Alfred had the afternoon off, that the ginger finally visited Jimmy at the Regent, but only to announce that a telephone had been installed into his building, and that he would give Jimmy a call that day at 19.00 sharp.

 

And so Jimmy made his way down to the landlady's at half past six. While he had seen it being used, he was unsure of how he himself would use the device.  He had never ridden in a car, and he had certainly never used a telephone. It made him realise how tedious his life at Downton would have been, there to watch those above him by birth or rank try exciting things, if he hadn’t had Thomas’ company.

He wondered if the telephone needed to be prepared for speaking, somehow. It turned out that the telephone was there just to be used, _not too frequently -_ the landlady warned, but it was prepared, and all it needed to do was ring, and all Jimmy needed to do was wait.  
The landlady made Jimmy a cup of tea, asked him several times if it was a ‘sweetheart’ who was to call, tried and failed not to comment on the fact that he’d arrived half an hour early and eventually sat to read the day’s newspaper, glancing up at the excited Jimmy Kent every once in a while.

At seven, the telephone rang. Jimmy jumped in his seat and looked at it, unsure of how to proceed.

 

"Well, answer it," the landlady said, lowering her glasses as she looked up from her paper.

 

"Right, ‘course," he gulped and stood up. He neared the phone, treading warily, as the landlady watched amusedly. Jimmy had never thought of himself as what one might nowadays refer to as a technophobe, but he'd heard things about these machines – cars, telephones, toasters - that might have not made a lot of sense, but still impacted him. Quite like the Bible, he supposed.

 

He took a deep breath, and placed his hands on the telephone.  
"...Alfred?" he said after he picked the receiver up.

There was a moment of silence, and Jimmy contemplated calling his name again, when-  
  
 _"HELLO?"_

 

"Hello..?" Jimmy asked.

 

_"THIS IS ALFRED NUGENT-"_

 

"You don't have to bloody yell!" Jimmy told him, his face twisting into a scowl.

 

There was a short pause.

 

 _"Jimmy?”_ a flustered Alfred replied. It gave Jimmy the courage to speak more easily: if Alfred could use the telephone, Jimmy could do it better.

 

"Right. Hello," Jimmy said after a while.

 

 _"Hello,"_ said Alfred, sounding more relaxed.

 

"Uh, right. How are you?" asked Jimmy, and mentally slapped himself. He could feel the landlady's eyes on him.

 

 _"Err... Good, yeah,’’_ Alfred said slowly.

Another, lingering,  pause.

"Listen, was there anything you wanted to tell me?" Jimmy asked. "I think that telephoning is _costly_ , you know?"  
  
 _"Huh... Didn’t think of it, but yeah – must be quite dear... Wait, I uh... Oh, yes! I just wanted to tell you that Daisy’s replied to my letter! A few days after I wrote, actually, but I always forgot to show it to you, and today I forgot to bring it to your hotel, so I was going to read it to you now, but…"_

 _Another_ pause.  
   
“Yes?" Jimmy prompted.

_"Well, y’see, I can’t find it... Seems I’ve lost it. But don’t you have lunch off Saturdays?"_

 

Jimmy rubbed his forehead, of course Alfred lost the letter. ‘’Yes, I do..?’’  
  
 _"Well, it must be here somewhere, I really want to show it to you – maybe we could go for tea tomorrow? I’ll find it, Jimmy, promise. There’s some things in there, don’t know who to share them with but you. Seems like there won’t be a new footman! And since Ivy’s left, there won’t be a new kitchen maid either! And Mr Barrow’s gone and hurt himself in some way, at least that’s what Daisy heard from Miss Baxter…"_

Jimmy’s face paled, and he clutched the receiver quietly.  
  
 _“Jimmy?"_  Alfred said, a tad louder. After a while of Jimmy not replying, Alfred spoke:  _“I WAS WONDERING IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO HAVE TEA -"_  
Jimmy could sense the paranoia, could guess the train of Alfred’s thoughts, riding on the tracks of  _‘I knew these bloody telephones couldn’t be trusted, he probably hasn’t heard a word I’ve said, I better yell-'_

 

"Yes, you idiot – don’t yell,” Jimmy cut him off, "we can go to that tea-shop near the Ritz…" he stammered. As much as he wanted to ask about Thomas, he knew he couldn’t. _Not that the buffoon would have a lot to say about Thomas. Not without the letter, anyway._

 _“Oh,”_ Alfred mumbled, " _Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, then."_

“Goodbye," Jimmy said.

_“Goodbye."_

 

For a long time after the telephone call, Jimmy lay in bed, awake, aware of why the thoughts of Thomas mangled and marred troubled him so. It was not an easy thing to be told that the one you love had been hurt, or worse, that they’d hurt themself.  
He was only able to get a measly two hours of sleep before he had to start getting ready for work.

Rich women sitting in the hotel restaurant had never before failed to make him feel better with their unabashed flirting. Yet the longer he worked, the harder it was to relax and reciprocate, an immense feeling of guilt looming over him.  He began to fear the possibility of Thomas' love having left a lifelong impact on him. He could no longer think of anything without imagining Thomas' reaction to it. _And why hadn't he written back yet? Was he terribly hurt?_ It was nothing fatal, he reassured himself, otherwise Alfred would have specified, but if only Thomas would talk to him...

_10th of May, 1924.  
Dear Jimmy, _

_I can't help but fear my letter has got lost in the post – if you have received it, then I am sorry for pestering you, but I must write in case you have not. I couldn't bear for you to think, even for a second, that I've forgotten about you. It's the last thing I would do._

_I'm still in hospital – Anna is not helping me write, but she promised to post this letter as well. I hope her letter-posting abilities are better than her card-playing ones, though I suppose I am a bit biased – no one could make an adequate ~~partner~~ opponent after you.  
I do hope you're well._

_Gladly your friend,_

_Thomas_

_P.S. Please, write back. I need to know you're well._

_P.P.S. By the way - I hear Yorkshire's beautiful in the late spring. I wouldn't know, as I'm holed up in this hospital, but if you ever wish to get out of the city for a while..._

_-_

Jimmy had sent three letters, and Thomas hadn't even sent a single one back. The idea that something awfully bad, something which would prevent Thomas from writing had happened occurred to Jimmy but he would always refuse to take it into consideration. He would rather have Thomas hating him than have something bad happening to the man.

The speculation was the worst bit; the fact that he knew nothing for sure, and the fact that if he was certain that something awful had happened he would have made his way to Downton is a heartbeat. But he didn't know.  
He decided to ask Alfred about the post office where he posted his letter to Daisy. Maybe Jimmy was angry for all the wrong reasons, maybe the letters were thrown behind a counter by that insufferable clerk and were wallowing in a dark, dusty corner of the damned post office.

-

 _13th of May, 1924_  
  
Dear Jimmy,

_I'm aware that this is the third letter I've sent in the span of a week, but I promise to make this one short. I'd merely like to inform you that I should be discharged for house rest tomorrow, therefore if you decide to write, it would be best to address your letters to Downton. I hope you're well, as always._

_Gladly yours,_

_Thomas_

_-_

 The entire morning, Jimmy had contemplated writing a fourth letter, and he decided to write it after he had met with Alfred.

-  
  
 _16th of May_  
 _Dear Jimmy,_  
  
 _I realise now that I may have committed a lapsus calami in my previous letter, and for that I would like to apologise. I had, of course, intended to state that I was gladly your Friend. With that said, I would also like to inform you that they have decided to keep me in hospital. If you decide to write, you can still address your letters to Downton, I'm sure Anna will bring them to me. - (...)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like, if you read this i really really hope you like it, cause. i care about you. seriously if you read this i care about you so much its tru


	5. May 17th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoy this newest installation of jimmy the cloud and friends

** Chapter 5 **

**a/n** everything italicised with ''(...)'' in front of it is an excerpt from Thomas' letter on May 16th 1924.

_(...) Have you ever heard of stress-induced illness, Jimmy?_

It was Saturday, the seventeenth, and Jimmy was positively gleaming. Though he gleamed not like the jewels on the ivory necks and wrists that adorned the restaurant, but the glistening raindrops that slid down cold windowpanes.

 

_(...) The generous excretion of steroids weakens the immune system, making one vulnerable to an entire spectrum of various illnesses. That’s what I’ve read, at least._

Jimmy was, naturally, extremely concerned about his friend’s well-being. Bathed in icy sweat, he felt as cold as he did clammy – but he also felt   _glittery_. Jittery. He finally had an excuse to go see Thomas. Who would question his visiting an old friend, especially now that the friend had fallen ill? Like a livid cloud replete with murky water, he knew he wasn’t welcome at Downton – but he would go, even if it meant that he had to rain on everyone. He hoped that at least one would rejoice at the sight, _and feel_ , of rain.

 

_(...) To an extent, the loss of good company could have riled my body up enough to make me ill, but I’m afraid that my mind got the worst of it, and it was my mind that did me in. It was the things I consciously chose, and blindly trusted – it was my stupidity. Jimmy...  
 I want to tell you the truth about my state and how truly foul it has been since you left._

* * *

 

The tea shop was packed with people. Jimmy, considering himself pompous for doing so, thought he quite stood out, even if the trait he thought he stood out for was not an admirable one. It was not his clothes, his hair, not his face - it was his state of being.  
While at Downton, he would always hear Mrs Patmore ask the glum ones why they looked  _'as if there's a black cloud above their head'_.  
Jimmy felt not like he was walking under a cloud, but as if the cloud had somehow descended upon him, enveloping him, swallowing him whole. Becoming him so that he was the cloud - the thing that brought others misfortune.  
He had already rained on quite a few parades: he had forgotten to let Oscar's cat in and the poor thing had got soaked, he had spilled a few drops of brandy on a gentleman he had been serving and he let Florence go out into the rain without a coat. The latest wasn't as much of an atrocity as the former two, hadn't earned him a reprimand from his superiors in either housing or his work, but it was the thing he felt worst about. Being courteous was foreign to him, especially if he had nothing to gain from it, but the urge to run after Florence was unbearably strong – yet remained not acted upon – made worse by the fact that he had already been feeling bad after declining her invitation to have lunch at her and Sandra's.  
He also wished he could have been there to place the proverbial coat on Thomas' shoulders to protect him from whatever illness had dared to lay a finger on him.

_(...) Left without a true friend, I began to question just why I was so disagreeable to people. Wouldn't I be happier if I were different, if I were content with marrying a rosy-cheeked village girl? If I were Bates?_

Alfred finally made it into the shop. Carrying a leather briefcase, he wove his way through the queue and between the tables and found Jimmy seemingly easily - he must have spotted him as soon as he entered.

Jimmy rose to greet him with a handshake – a gesture so simple and yet so strange for the two of them. When they sat, Alfred wasted no time and, and immediately pulled the letter out of his case.  
When he handed it to Jimmy, the Regent employee immediately scanned the letter for mentions of the under butler's name _. 'Mr Molesley wants to talk to her, but she's always going on about Thomas. We're all ever so worried about him. I know you never liked him much, but I know that even you wouldn't have wished this upon him. But I don't know, maybe you did like him; I'm not sure about anything anymore. Thomas always thinks that none of us care for him, but I think everyone does now. Mr Bates is the only one that doesn't ask about him, but I can see him listening whenever someone mentions Thomas. I heard Miss Baxter tell Mrs Patmore that he was taking drugs to change him. Thomas, I mean, not Mr Bates. But it did remind me of Mr Bates, and the time he secretly tried to fix his limp. Much like Thomas does, he tried to hide it. We were all very worried then. But Thomas doesn’t have a limp or anything of the like. He's trying to change something inside him... Mrs Patmore says it's his affection for gentlemen. She says that she can't see why he'd want to change, says he's always been proud of himself. Mr Molesley gave me an American newspaper where I read that it's called a 'sexuality'. Mrs Patmore says it's improper for a young woman to use such words, even if I am a scholar now, but I must say this: I wish Thomas wouldn't take it so seriously. It's as if it's not him who's carrying the sexuality, it's as if the sexuality is the one carrying him. I don't think anyone at Downton cared much that he preferred Jimmy to the girls.'_  
  
''You're a fast reader,'' jibed Alfred.  
  
Jimmy didn’t realise he'd been muttering it under his breath until the theme of the letter changed to culinary tips.  
  
''Blimey, she can write,'' Jimmy said with a nervous smile, hoping to distract Alfred since he had no desire to read the rest of the letter.

''That she can,'' Alfred said proudly.  
  
Jimmy set the letter down on the desk. ''So, when exactly did you get this?''  
  
''Ehh, think it was the seventh?,'' Alfred said, furrowing his brow.  
  
Jimmy nodded. ''I've been writing as well, and I think that my post-'' he began, but was interrupted by an indignant _''To who?''  
  
_ Jimmy gulped. The correct answer would have been _''the under butler and his sexuality''_ , but he thought of a more acceptable answer. ''Ivy.''

''Ah... Right.'' Alfred said, folding his arms, ''So, what's going on in her world?''  
  
''Eh... Not much,'' Jimmy said, averting his eyes.  
  
''Well I find that hard to believe, '' Alfred snorted, ''Daisy wrote that she left for America... Where in America is she, anyway?''

Jimmy bit his lip, ''I, err, haven't gotten a letter back from her yet, actually-''

''But you must've addressed your letter to somewhere,'' Alfred persisted. Jimmy didn't remember him as being that clever.

'' 'Course, yeah. York – err – New York, that is. That's where she is. Look, d'you want some tea? Think we're supposed to queue up-''

''Nah, thanks,'' said Alfred dismissively. ''New York? Crikey.''  
  
''Yes,'' confirmed Jimmy, fearing that Alfred might ask for an actual address.  
  
''I wonder what it's like. I bet it's just like York, only bigger. _And newer-_ '' he said with a smirk.  
  
''Yeah...'' Jimmy said, squinting. ''But listen – Where'd you post your bloody letter? I don't think Ivy's got my letters, since my post office is-''

''Hasn't got the letter,'' Alfred interrupted again, standing up, ''Or just isn't interested?''  
Smugly, he sauntered off and stood in the queue.  
  
Jimmy was left alone, sat in front of Daisy's letter with only his troubling thoughts. He counted the times Thomas' name appeared in the letter (7). He couldn't help but think that there was truth to Alfred's words – _What if Thomas is simply not interested?_

There was also that fear that imposed thoughts of Thomas harming himself to change further _because_ of receiving a letter from him. Undoubtedly, a letter would upset him, remind him of the past. It was then, as Alfred stood waiting for the two cups of chamomile he'd ordered, that Jimmy realised a part of him had been hoping that the letters met their end at the post office – while they'd probably arrived safely, and were so upsetting that Thomas deemed them unworthy of a reply.  
  
 _But...  maybe they hadn't arrived._

Thomas wouldn't ignore him. Thomas would write a letter, polite but biting, if he had minded Jimmy's letters – he was certain that Thomas would have written to him. Possibly conceited in its wake, the thought that Thomas couldn't just let him go lingered decidedly in Jimmy's mind. He knew that Thomas still thought of him, though the worry that Thomas thought of him in a bad way grew with each passing moment and more so with each unanswered letter.

 

_(...) I got therapy in London, but it hasn't helped me. It only served to get me infected. I should have done some research, I know that now, but I was far too determined to change and I pounced on the first thing I managed to come across._   
_But it seems that there's hope, because one of the reasons I'm being held at the hospital is because a new doctor has come along to work alongside Dr Clarkson, and he says that he knows of a form of therapy that would fix me. It would not steer my affections in the right direction, he says, it would expunge them completely. Which is just as well, he says, for they are the result of repulsive conditions._   
_A part of me is still not sure if I want to proceed with this, to be honest. I know I should try my best to try and correct this flaw of mine. If I do proceed, I hope that if it does change me, it'll make me a decent man but I also hope that it won't erase my ability to love._   
_Though I'm certain that there's a sort of love that could never wane, Jimmy, and I feel both graced and pained by it. Despite myself, I can't consider my affections to be any less than perfect, for the person they're aimed at is perfect in every way._

 

Tea with Alfred seemed to turn Jimmy into a black, soaking nimbostratus. He felt worse than he had in a long time, and decided to stray from writing for a while.

Dinner was at Florence's. Or it should have been.

* * *

 

The following day, Jimmy scoured his valise for his – still intact – Sunday best. He had woken in a cold sweat, a humid room and with snot and tears dried up on his face. The rain battered against the slick pavements outside – _a perfect day for a funeral_.  
He felt forlorn, even worse than the day before. But he was relieved to at least have been invited to the funeral – though he loved the deceased, he wasn't sure if he'd been around enough to deserve to stand alongside friends and family as the casket was lowered into the grave. Luckily, friends of the deceased deemed him worthy of attending.

As he dressed himself, thoughts about the loss of a loved one plagued him – though the passing had drained all of his tears, it felt far from cathartic. It only left a heavier weight on his chest. It robbed his body of any water – he could taste sand in his mouth and feel sandpaper when he touched his face.

Then, he came upon something, and it was the only thing that could steal his attention even from death – _Thomas_. It was when Jimmy stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket that he found it. A stray pack of cigarettes.  
He knew for certain that he had only had half a pack left upon leaving Downton – he savoured those, only lighting one when he wrote to Thomas. He had asked for a pack of Thomas' (as he'd dubbed them) cigarettes at the newsagent's once, but they didn't have the exact brand. He didn't seek any further, because really what he'd liked most about the cigarettes was the fact that they were Thomas', and there was no chance of him getting that.

For a moment, he thought that perhaps Thomas was the one who'd put the cigarettes in his pocket, and the next moment he was certain of it, for amongst the white tubes there was a white slip of paper that bore what was undoubtedly Thomas' handwriting. Jimmy sat on the bed and pulled the paper out of the box.

 _'Hope you're not missing me too bad,'_ it read.

_(...) To say that you brought colour into my days would perhaps be too soppy, wouldn't it? But I feel like I should use this opportunity to say what I have to say, for the reality of never getting to see you again is slowly settling upon me._

Jimmy turned the paper over in his hand and was met with a black-and-white version of the man he loved. He stared at the photograph and Thomas' – grey, lacking that hint of blue but still as piercing as ever – eyes stared back at him, slightly crinkling at the edges above placid lips which Jimmy could see stifling a smile.

_(...) I suppose I am, in a way, a poor rendition of the man you've seen on that note I left you – again, I'm supposing you've found it and wondering if perhaps I should have hid it better so that you never do. I am black and grey. To be honest, my entire world is as doused in ink._   
  
  
  
_You were, and continue to be, the greatest man I ever knew, and when I had you – here, of course – I thought that if I were ever to lose you it would break my heart. Now that there's no place for imagining and I have lost you, it appears that a worse scenario has played out. It's broken my mind._   
_I suppose I will mend, but as you can see, I'm still uncertain about how to go about fixing myself._   
_When Baxter visited me at the hospital, she said I had been brave in trying to change. 'Very brave,' I quote. I held onto the words, for they reminded me of another time I'd been called brave. I thought of being brave for myself for once, not the world, took it as a cue to stop and be the man I wanted to be._   
  
_Be the man on the photograph, really. Happy, still without your presence to colour me in, but content._

Jimmy examined the photograph thoroughly. _'Hope you're not missing me too bad.'_

''Cheeky bastard,'' Jimmy mumbled, and it seemed that the cloud he was hadn't dried up completely, for the tears came in floods.

* * *

 

Oscar's black umbrella in hand, Jimmy walked toward the pitchy crowd. It seemed that all the London folk in attendance were proud owners of a black frock, suit or smock – while the best Jimmy had was his brown suit. As he neared the funeral, he could see Sandra standing under a big umbrella with Dr Lewis, right in front of the grave. He pondered standing next to her, but decided against it – though she was the only one he really knew there, she was also the closest to the deceased, a thing he was far from. He spotted, at the back of the crowd, an older man, the only one exposed to the precipitation. Knowing it would make him look benevolent, instead of like a blunderbuss if he stood next to the wrong person, he stood beside the man and offered to share his umbrella.  
  
''Ah, thank you,'' said the man, acting much as if he hadn't noticed that it was raining.  
Jimmy nodded and raised the, fortunately big enough, umbrella to shield both of them from the rain.  
  
''Were you good friends with her?'' the man asked, rummaging through the inside of his jacket.  
  
''Yeah. Well... Friends, anyway,'' came Jimmy's quiet reply. He cleared his throat, ''You?''  
  
The man shook his head. He was quiet for a moment. ''I'm her dad.''  
  
Jimmy's lips parted in shock, and he sought a proper reply. ''I'm so sorry,'' he muttered.  
  
''I know, I bet she was sorry that I'm her dad as well-''  
  
''No,'' Jimmy said, flustered, ''I meant – sorry – about the...''  
  
''I know what you meant, lad,'' the man said with a sad smile.  
  
He lit a cigarette, and Jimmy stared ahead of him, where Dr Lewis was comforting Sandra as she sobbed into her hands.  
  
''That-'' the man pointed at Dr Lewis with his cigarette, ''Should be me. But her lass won't even hear of me. Thinks I made Kwieta live a miserable life. But how was I to go about it? Women have been marrying into their lives for decades in the family... What was I to do when I realised that keeping her from going to school might've been a bad thing? And it was too late when I realised that marrying wasn't an option for Kwieta.''

 _(...) But I can't get it off my mind, Jimmy, that of all people, I should be the one persecuted for my affections. I suppose I should be grateful to my mother and father, but I don't know how to feel about them. They gave me life, but they also made the life a living hell.  
  
  
  
  
_ ''I don't see why her _partner_ over there won't try to see it,'' the man continued, raising his cigarette in Sandra's direction.  ''I did mess up, I know I did, didn't want to believe my daughter could be of _that sort_ , but I gave her a bloody apartment to live in with her lass. I _was_ hoping that she'd change her ways, see salvation in God and choose the right path – but maybe the right path has been chosen for her a long time now. _“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter,''_ '' he quoted under his breath. ''For a while, I saw the narrow gate, the path harder to take - as the path of change, the path she should take. But I think the path of acceptance is narrower still, and I only envy her for being brave enough to take it.''

Jimmy nodded, unsure of what to say. "Mr Adamowicz?" he asked sheepishly.

"Hm?" the man mumbled around the cigarette.

"How'd she die?" Jimmy asked, fearing that Florence had taken her own life, yielding under the pressure of society.

The man blew out a gust of smoke and sighed, and Jimmy didn't know if the answer he got consoled him in any way, for even though Florence had not taken her own life, Jimmy feared that he was involved in the accident that did take her life by not being there to protect her.

"A Bullnose Morris."   
 _  
  
  
(...) The woe is splitting me apart into two equally miserable halves, one of them angry at myself and the other at this bloody broken society._  
 _The man in the photograph is how I want you to remember me, but I'm afraid I can't be him anymore. The therapy might be my last and only chance to find happiness, but the thought of that is what makes me the most miserable._  
 _In any case, I won’t commence the therapy until I've healed completely, which should take about a month. Don't hesitate to write back, I'd value your opinion very much._

_Gladly your friend,_

_Thomas_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow can you tell that they're gonna meet soon or is that just me


	6. May 20th - June 5th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait, i am on vacation :) hope i don’t disappoint!

**Chapter 6**  
  
The 20th of May

 

 _One last letter_ , Jimmy decided. One more, and then he’d forget about the entire affair.

The bottoms of the two glasses slammed dully against the surface of the table.

“Here we go,” Alfred said, settling into the chair next to Jimmy, who had pulled a piece of paper out of his inner jacket pocket.

“You haven’t got a pen, have you?” Jimmy asked absently, looking around himself.

“Nah,” said Alfred, shaking his head. “What d’you need a pen for?”

“I’m writing a letter,” answered Jimmy impatiently, before standing up and walking to the counter where he politely asked the barmaid for a pen. She gave him a black, rusty one - the tip of which seemed to have been chewed on either by time or, unattractively and plainly, someone’s teeth.

When Jimmy returned, Alfred smirked, to himself - if it was for Jimmy’s benefit it was in vain for the blond hadn’t noticed, so absorbed was he in the still blank piece of paper in front of him - and leaned over, taking a sip of his ale.

“So she’s written back, has she?” Alfred asked suggestively.

 _‘So you’ve got over her, have you?’_ Jimmy wanted to retaliate, but he bit it back and instead uttered an impatient “No.”  
Jimmy’s hand instinctively slid down into his pocket where his photograph of Thomas rested, as it always did in the face of annoyance or indignity. He hated his hands for blindly seeking Thomas, seeking that sliver of comfort he’d find when tracing the edges of the photograph with his fingers. This magical piece of paper where Thomas’ lovely features lay perpetually on display had quickly become Jimmy’s favourite thing in the world, with only the man on the photograph himself dearer to his heart. The reason he hated himself for becoming so comfortable with ghosting his fingers over Thomas’ face was mostly because it had worn the photograph out. It had been in Jimmy’s possession for less than a week - well, really it was Jimmy’s since the day Thomas had taken it for him, but naturally Jimmy only counted the days it was in his hands. (In his jacket when he was out and in his shirt pocket, quite poetically next to his heart, when he was at home. Under his pillow, when he slept.)  
He had held it close for less than a week but the constant touching made the photograph look decades old. It also served as a bitter reminder that Thomas himself could have worn out, tired of Jimmy and Jimmy’s letters and Jimmy’s constant fiddling with his feelings.  
  
 _Just one more letter._  
  
The only thing, fearing that Thomas would have grown tired of his constant apologising, that Jimmy could think of writing was _‘I love you’_.

_I love you, you wonderful man, and I’m so bloody sorry-_

“Don’t you think Ivy’ll be fed up with your-" Alfred began, and Jimmy almost clenched his fist around the photograph in his pocket.

“Yes,” he answered bitterly. _Yes, he could be fed up with me, but if I don’t say this I’ll end up hating him for the rest of my life._

“Do you love her?” Alfred asked, sounding shocked. Jimmy looked up from the paper.

“...Yes.” He took his hand out of his pocket to take a sip of his ale.

“Ah, well... I’m sorry, mate,” Alfred said sincerely.

“Why would he not write back?” Jimmy whispered, and Alfred must’ve heard the ‘he’ as a ‘she’, for he didn’t hesitate in sharing his opinion. Jimmy’s fingers found their way back to the photograph, partly to irrationally check if it was still in the place he’d left it. (It was there, he concluded, relieved.)

“Maybe she’s busy. Maybe it hurts too much for her to be away from you...” Alfred said with a scowl. The last part was obviously said to indulge Jimmy and held no real meaning, and yet Jimmy found himself clinging onto it because maybe, in certain circumstances, it could be true of Thomas.

Jimmy nodded and grinned, but then his brow furrowed in contemplation. “Wish I had... Never mind. It’s just... Things were so easy back at Downton, weren’t they? I could’ve had this grand love and I... Ah, sod it. Sod it all...” he muttered.

Alfred nodded, “Y’ don’t have to tell me...” he folded his hands in his lap and looked down sheepishly, “To tell the truth, I miss Daisy like Hell. I wish I’d seen her when I was still able to do something about it. She’s so clever, Jimmy, and the more I think of her... She was pretty as well, weren’t she?”

Jimmy cracked a broad smile, “Don’t go all soft on me, mate. Thought you were all about having a new girl every night and the like... Remember that lass from the bar, from last time?” he reminded.

Alfred went a bit red in the face. “I am!” he stammered, “I’m a proper, red-blooded man, and I could have gone with her if I wanted to!”

“I know you could,” it was Jimmy’s turn to indulge Alfred. He knew that really the most important thing for Alfred was that Jimmy knew he could have done whatever he wanted to.

“Good... I’m not the same lad I was back at Downton, y’know?”

“Me neither,” Jimmy agreed quietly. _Me neither._

_My dearest Thomas,_

_I love you,_

_Truly and utterly yours, Jimmy_

He used the time Alfred was in the loo to scribble it down, and then the note joined Thomas in his pocket. He hoped it would join the real Thomas as well, and soon.

_P.S. I always have, and I’m afraid that I always will._

* * *

 

 

He had no explanation for why he posted the letter in that same post office he suspected was swallowing the letters up so that they never made it into Thomas’ hands. He wanted Thomas to know about his feelings, of course he did, and he knew that saying it via letter was the best option for him. To just send it and get on with his life. And yet he hoped that the volatile clerk would actually throw the letter into a bin so that Jimmy would have time to be the one to tell Thomas that he loved him, instead of having a piece of paper do it for him.  
He had no rational explanation for why he had posted the letter, even if he wished he hadn’t, so he had to explain it irrationally, with fear that Thomas wouldn’t have liked to see him. Fear that Thomas Barrow not only ceased to love him, but began to hate him.

* * *

 

The 3rd of June

 

It was the first letter that _had_ got lost.

Though just for a short while, some two weeks, only to fall into Bates’ meddling hands just a day before Thomas was to get back to work.

On Jimmy’s part, the two weeks during which the letter had accidentally boarded the wrong train were spent holed up in the flat or doing his job the best he could, with Florence’s absence painfully palpable in the hotel air. He had, somehow, managed to get on Oscar’s good side by misnaming his cat - he’d called the poor creature Tommy instead of Timmy, a thing Oscar found endearing for some reason unbeknownst to Jimmy.  
This meant that he was allowed to walk about Oscar’s quarters less timidly, and it meant that he was free to borrow any book from Oscar. An old copy of Faust struck his fancy, so it was the one he decided to read. He remembered seeing it on a shelf in Thomas’ room once or twice, when he was still able to just walk carelessly into the room. Oscar lauded his choice of reading material and wisely remarked that if he kept reading he would get better at writing, and so be able to write a beautiful letter to his friend.  
Jimmy shrugged, gave a sad smile and said that he was done with writing letters.  
He read only when he smoked, and smoked only when he read - the combination of both seemed to lure those fond memories of Thomas to the surface.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch - Thomas was doing his fair share of trying to conjure up happy memories. The one he was perhaps most fond of was when a few nights before Jimmy left, Jimmy and he stayed up way past their bedtime, smoking in the hall after their umpteenth game of twenty-one. It was the night they both silently decided to bare their souls to each other, and it was the first time they spoke of the war. The silent bond of having survived the horrors of war was one of the many things that tied them together but they had never addressed it directly until that night. Thomas had let Jimmy catch glimpses of his blighty before, but it wasn’t until then that he let Jimmy touch it. Jimmy held Thomas’ hand with both of his, looking at Thomas with soft, saddened eyes. Not seconds after, Thomas had decided that it was time for bed.

At the beginning of the fortnight, somewhere around the 20th when the love letter had just been posted, Thomas had been half-discharged; his state had bettered and he was instructed to spend his nights at Downton and make his way to the hospital every few days. Staying at Downton was like staying in the hospital, really: he had as much contact with the rest of the staff as if he were still away from Downton, since he was still unable to work and spent most of his time up in his room. The women he’d thought he’d befriended would shy away at the idea of going up to the men’s quarters, so the person who mostly visited him was Mr Molesley, who relayed to him that Daisy was quite interested in the therapy he’d decided to mar himself with.

Two weeks later, on the day that Jimmy’s final letter arrived, he was at the hospital, receiving instructions for the aftermath of surviving pneumonia. The next day, he would already begin working, with the upstairs oh-so-chuffed that he’d finally gotten over the terrible illness.  
  
On that day, also known as the fourth of June, Bates was a proud owner of a fine stack of letters - in total, four of Jimmy’s and four of Thomas’. Well, the pride bit is debatable - after all, he kept the letters in a box under the bed, where he was hoping his wife wouldn’t look. Fortunately, Anna did look, but that’s a story for another day - more specifically, it’s the story of the 5th.

* * *

 

The 5th of June

Anna wouldn’t have even thought of looking under the bed, if the previous night she hadn’t been awoken to the sound of her husband fumbling with his coat. He had told her that it was nothing and that she should go to sleep, and she did, but not before noticing an awkwardly placed box on the nightstand, a box that she’d never seen before, and a box that would fail to fit anywhere in the room except under the bed.

* * *

 

Jimmy walked up to Rosebery with one of his hands folded around a bouquet of white roses and the other, predictably, in his pocket, gently folded around the photograph. The five roses he’d barely managed to afford were pretty enough, but his clammy hand seemed to be withering the stalks in the place where he grasped them, and the flowers seemed to grow tired of life, drooping and releasing petals whenever he’d accidentally shake them. The entire display seemed quite pointless - the last thing a grieving widow would need was a bunch of dying flowers, but it was tradition, the societal norm or something equally as frivolous.

He absently walked to the door of her flat, where he knocked and patiently waited.

“You’re not in black,” was the first thing he said, quiet and unpredictable, and awfully stupid. Yet it made Sandra smile, and instead of listening to his apologies she just let him into the flat and explained - “Not all my clothes are black, you know...” she said benevolently, “And I do like to do the washing-up every once in a while...”

Jimmy nodded furiously, “I see. I know, I’m sorry -" he stuttered, embarrassed. She nodded understandingly, ushered him into the flat and sat him down on the recliner. She went to pull up a chair for herself, sneaking a handkerchief out of her sleeve to wipe her eyes every once in a while. Sandra sat in front of him, and asked how he spent his time.  
She spoke kindly, but with less enthusiasm, softer and less often. She was holding out just fine as Jimmy spoke of his boring life - it was when he asked her how she was that she broke down.  
He made room on the recliner and she reluctantly moved to sit next to him, apologising and assuring him that she was fine the entire time, but Jimmy couldn’t imagine how bad she must have been feeling so he just shut his mouth and held her hand as she cried.

“I don’t want to... I’m sorry, Jimmy - “ she muttered. “Tell me something...” she snivelled.

“What?”

“Anything,” she whimpered.

“Anything.” he confirmed, and began to think of what he could say.

She nodded, her eyes brimming with tears, “Please... Something to take my mind off it for just a second... How’ve you been? Has your man written back to you?” she asked hopefully and managed a smile as she looked up at him.

Jimmy had no explanation for why he answered affirmatively.

It could have been the feeling that he thought Sandra could use some good news, or maybe it was the strange desire he had to live in a world where Thomas was writing back for just a moment. “Yeah... yes,” he said.

“Really?” she asked with a smile, squeezing Jimmy’s hand, her other hand coming up to wipe at her eyes.

“Yes,” Jimmy said, a sad smile adorning his face.

“What did he say? What did you say?” she asked.

“I… I'd written that I loved him,” he pondered a bit before continuing: “And he said I was foolish to have put something like that in writing.”

Sandra laughed, and Jimmy gave a small grin. “He’s right,” she said quietly, “But he does love you too? He must!” she said quietly, wiping of the last of her tears.

“Yeah...” Jimmy nodded, “He told me he loved me,” Jimmy said, hoping that Sandra wouldn’t notice the dampening of his eyes, or at least attribute it to happiness if she did.

“That’s wonderful,” she said with a smile, “Oh Jimmy...”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” he said and forced a brief smile, his hand wandering into his pocket where he traced the outline of the photograph.

“What else did he say?” she asked, leaning in curiously. “Was he terribly romantic?”

Jimmy nodded carefully. “He said, that uh, he’s always loved me and that he could never stop. He’s forgiven me for being a bit stupid in the past, and, uh... Said I look lovely,” his voice got progressively quieter as he spoke, as if he wasn’t enjoying his lie as much as he thought he would. It was always like that with Jimmy, some things looked to him as if they’d bring amazing results in his mind, but the reality was often a lot different.

He didn’t realise that he was crying until Sandra silently offered him a handkerchief. He shook his head and wiped the tears with the back of his hand, the first quiet sob escaping his throat.  
Sandra quietly studied him for a while before she spoke. “He hasn’t written back, has he?” she asked as considerately as she could.  
Jimmy shook his head and bit his lip in an attempt to stop sobbing.

“No."

* * *

Thomas couldn’t believe that his first day back at work could have been as uneventful for him, but he was savouring it, for it was eventful for practically everyone else and he was free to walk about and observe, smoking languidly and ordering the hall boys around. The only person he really spoke to the entire morning was Anna. Somehow, the topic had quickly changed from work and health to Jimmy’s letters, as it lately always seemed to.

“I don’t think I’ll write again. Four letters in the span of a month, what was I thinking?"  
  
“I think he was happy to receive them. I do, even if he’s not writing back,” Anna said with certainty that made Thomas grin.  
  
“Right, well… I wish he’d just tell me _something_. Anything. He doesn’t have to write bloody novels,” Thomas mumbled bitterly.

Anna nodded, “Maybe he’s just uncertain of what to write. Then again letter might be in the post as we speak, you never know.”

Thomas shook his head, “As much as I hate it, I think it’s time to be thinking about moving on,” Thomas said, tipping his head in an attempt at a careless shrug before walking off.

  
Not a moment later, he was called over by Carson, and then something extraordinary happened.

* * *

 

“Did you try telephoning him?” Sandra asked, “Telephoning the house, I mean, and...”

Jimmy shook his head. _How could he have been so stupid?_

As soon as he got back to 13 Warner Street, he went straight into the landlady’s office. She wasn’t there, but he didn’t mind, he’d come for the telephone.

His fingers shook as he pulled one of the last two cigarettes out of the pack and lit it and they shook even worse as he picked up the receiver.

* * *

The extraordinary wasn’t as extraordinary as it was bizarre, and hilariously embarrassing, and it was due to Lord Grantham who had, childishly indignant, strutted off into the Library after breakfast and asked not to be disturbed. He was set on having the room to himself, as his wife was still messing about with that awful Bricker fellow and he wanted something to take his mind off it.  
Sleep was, eventually, the thing that had taken his mind off it, and he was snoring in one of the recliners in no time. Of course, Mr Carson had instructed the entire staff not to wake Robert under any circumstances, but then a telegram had arrived from a nice village lady who had decided that she wanted to discuss details of the war memorial and that she was planning on making her way to Downton as soon as she could. The lady could not, of course, invite herself of her own accord and just tango into Downton whenever she wanted to, but she was owed some sort of a reply and therefore his Lordship had to be woken and asked for permission. Mr Carson, sure that he could have dealt with the memorial people himself and yet not too keen on getting on his Lordship’s bad side, had sent Thomas up to the Library to wake him.

The REM phase is a phase of sleep during which bodily functions yield to the functions of the mind and the average person drifts into a deep sleep. It is also the stage of sleep in which we dream, and if woken, we might feel quite disoriented, even unnerved. Neither Thomas nor anyone of the period had known its exact name, but that certainly didn't prevent it from occurring.

“My Lord,” he called, and he called again. Then he had done it louder, and finally, Robert stirred and mumbled something incoherent.

“My Lord, I’m afraid you’re needed,” Thomas said impatiently, though all traces of impatience were carefully obscured by a polite tone of voice.

“She’s come back… Don’t… Don’t let her in,” Lord Grantham mumbled nervously, not opening his eyes. Thomas straightened up, looking around himself briefly, as if to ask _‘Is anyone else hearing this?’_

“Jane... Yes, the maid… I know I shouldn’t have… But she was so… Don’t let her in,” Lord Grantham said groggily, his eyes still closed as if he were half-asleep, “And she’ll tell Cora...”

Thomas looked down at Robert, speechless for a moment. “Alright... Well, if you’ll just let us know if we’re to invite the memorial people over, my Lord...”

“No, Barrow... You have to keep her away. She’ll tell Cora about what we’ve done and... She’ll tell her... What if... A child... Hold on… What if my mother finds out...”  
He mumbled something else before he was opening his eyes, as if coming to his senses. Thomas stood there, unable to believe what he was witnessing.

“Of course I won’t tell anyone, my Lord...” he said carefully, “Well. I will tell Mr Carson to come up and you can tell him your decision about the memorial.”

“Uh... Quite... Quite right Barrow, yes,” Robert mumbled, attempting to sit up and revealing that the material of the recliner had imprinted itself into his cheek. Though it was not his place to look, Thomas could see him blink his way out of a haze, and he walked quickly out of the room to spare both himself and Robert any further embarrassment. However, he didn’t doubt for a second that the knowledge about the adventures of maid Jane would come in handy at some point in the future.  

 

* * *

 

There was a telephone call almost immediately after the telegram had arrived, when Mr Barrow was busy upstairs.

“Hello?” Mr Carson spoke sternly.

 _“H-Hello?”_ Jimmy said, quite amazed to be hearing Carson’s voice.

“To whom am I speaking?”

Jimmy gulped, _“It’s Jimmy... James Kent,”_ he said nervously.

“Ah, I see,” Carson said coolly, looking around, wishing he’d closed the door behind himself. “And how may I help you?”

“ _I, uh. I was hoping to speak to Mr Barrow_ ,” Jimmy said courageously.

“Right, well-“ Carson drawled, “Mr Barrow is busy upstairs at the moment...”

“Who is that, Mr Carson?” Anna asked, stepping through the doorway. “Ah, pardon,” she said, as if realising how rudely she’d interrupted, “I, just, if it’s a call for Mr Barrow, I can take the message, or-“

“I’m perfectly capable of taking a message myself, Mrs Bates, but thank you. Now if you’ll-“

 _“Is that Anna?”_ Jimmy interrupted, overhearing the conversation. _“Mr Carson, please, could you put her on?”_ Mr Carson sighed irritatedly, but moved aside so Anna could take his place at the telephone, mumbling as he did so.

“Hello?” Anna asked, hoping it was who she thought it was. _“Anna?”_ Jimmy said, “ _Anna, hello, uh - Is Thomas really busy?_ ”

Anna looked up at Mr Carson, who’d decided to linger in the room, “I’m afraid he really is, it’s something to do with his Lordship. He might be back any moment. It was right of you to call now that he’s all healed up. It’s his first day back, you know.”

The line was silent for a moment.  
  
 _“...What?”_

“Oh, his first day back at work, of course - he’s been at Downton for a while now as I’m sure you know, but pneumonia is such dreadful business-“

 _“He’s been ill the entire time?”_ Jimmy said, and stubbed the cigarette out under his foot, having released it from his grip to have a hand to wrap around the photograph in his pocket.

“Well... Yes. He must have told you-“ Anna said, quite confused.

 _“He’s not told me a thing!”_ Jimmy cried, nearing the telephone. _“Sorry. Sorry - I, is he alright?”_

“Yes, well, he is now. I can’t believe he’d keep it from you. He hasn’t said anything in his letters?”

Jimmy paused for a second.

_“There haven’t been any letters.”_

“Jimmy, don’t joke with such matters. Those letters are very important to him, he says he’s written some things he really wanted you to know.”

Jimmy could feel his heart skip a beat, but then he remembered the reality of the situation. _“I’m not messing about! He’s not answered any of my letters, he’s been throwing them right into the fireplace without reading them for all I know...”_

“But... That can’t be right,” Anna said, her hand shaking as she held the receiver. For a moment she feared that she’d drop it.

 _“Has he really been writing to me?”_ Jimmy said hopefully with an audible smile. _“I’ve been fearing that he remembers me in a bad way, but if he’s written, he can’t hate me, right? Anna?”_

“Right,” Anna said, nodding, “Right. Listen, I must go now. I’ll tell Mr Barrow to telephone back when he can, alright?”

Jimmy’s face fell. _“Yeah. Alright.”_

“Goodbye, Jimmy,” she said quickly, and handed the receiver over to Mr Carson as a faint _“Goodbye, Anna,”_ sounded.

Anna all but ran to Mrs Hughes’ office to ask for permission to slip out for a bit. She then ran to the cottage, and began rummaging in the bedroom, because it all came together - the lack of received letters as opposed to a plethora of written ones, the odd box under the bed, and the fact that neither she nor Thomas had posted a single letter - she had trusted her husband to post them. And under the bed, with four of Thomas’ letters, she found four envelopes that looked exactly like the ones she’d seen her husband take but never open, usually after the morning post, and she’d always dismissed it as her husband having a war buddy or really anything he would have eventually told her about. Envelopes with neat, school-boyishly careful, big and rounded letters:

_TO: Thomas Barrow, under butler_  
 _Downton Park,_  
 _Downton Yorkshire_

_FROM: James Kent_  
 _13a Warner Street_  
 _Finsbury, London_


	7. June 5th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! i was grossly uninspired ngl there is no excuse forgive me
> 
> if you’ve not read goethe, all you need to know for this chapter is 
> 
> werther = the main character in "the sorrows of young werther”  
> wilhelm = his penpal  
> lotte = the girl he falls in love with
> 
> and mephistopheles is ofc the devil

** Chapter 7 **

 

Anna briefly contemplated returning the letters to the box, sticking it under the bed and trying to erase the box's existence from her memory. It was, however, only a fleeting thought, mentioned here merely to show that even the best of people occasionally have bad thoughts, though they rarely act upon them.

She instead stuffed the letters into her frock front pocket and made a beeline for Downton.

 

She was uncertain whether she'd like to encounter her husband or Thomas first, and she was glad to be rid of the possibility of a choice when she ran into John a moment after she entered through the kitchen back door. 

 

"Hello," he greeted her with a small smile, which quickly fell as he looked at her - she was obviously distressed. "Mrs Hughes told me that you'd run off unexpectedly... What happened?" he asked with earnest concern.

 

She shook her head and walked past him, uttering the words, "Follow me," as she did. She led the way through the corridor, casting a glance through the servants' hall door as they walked past it. She caught sight of Thomas, smiling as he smoked, sitting next to Daisy who was talking animatedly.

 

"Anna, are you alright?" her husband asked, trying to catch up with her as she rushed to her destination. She decided not to grace him with an answer and instead led the way into the fortunately empty boot room. 

 

"Close the door," she said quietly as she entered and stood beside the table. He obeyed, and took a step closer.

 

Anna looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. She didn't really know where to begin, so she reached into her pocket, and John observed as the bulge in her frock was slowly revealed to be a pile of letters, which she then placed on the table. He stepped back so that his back was touching the surface of the door.

 

"Do you know," she said softly, her voice quivering, "What it's like to be waiting for a letter when you know that you're owed one, and never receiving the letter?" 

 

"Yes," Bates uttered through clenched teeth. He recalled his days in prison, when he wrote to Anna but never got a response due to an error in communication.

 

"So do I," Anna said, indignantly wiping her tears off with her palms. John thought of reaching into his pocket to hand her a handkerchief, but thought better of it. 

 

"Anna..." he offered, but she shook her head, and continued speaking:

 

"When you were away, and I weren't getting any letters - it was horrible. I was miserable, and everyone saw it, each morning when the post arrived... I could see the pity in their eyes. I hated it, I really did, because I knew you'd written, and I wished I could reassure them that you're the good man you are. But there wouldn't have been anything more pathetic than me trying to justify you."

 

"It wouldn't have been pathetic. Not at all," he said as if the mere thought offended him and took a step closer.

 

"Don't," she said fiercely though her voice still shook, taking a step back. She took a breath before continuing: "You and I were redeemed when the letters finally arrived, Mr Molesley even said that he never doubted you. And it was alright, because someone had realized their mistake - or our mistake - and made it right, and I got my letters, but if the world had waited for you to realise your mistake I'm afraid we'd never have lived to see the day Thomas finally got his," she said, with rancour she never knew she was capable of. 

 

Bates just nodded, looking down. "I'm sorry."

 

That's when Anna noticed that John had had an apologetic look on his face ever since she unveiled the letters - it even seemed that he'd been prepared for the confrontation, full of regret. He didn't try to fight her on it, he simply went along with everything she said.

 

"I'm sure that nothing you say could possibly make it right, but go on then," she said, crossing her arms over her chest, "Why?"

 

He looked up at her and sighed. "I don't know. It was when I found that thing you said you were keeping for Lady Mary-"

 

"And I was," she said.

 

"I know," he finally took a step closer, "I know, love - I know it now. But before I could bring myself to ask you, I spoke with his Lordship, and... I don't know. Somehow he brought Lady Anstruther and James into the mix," he stammered, and Anna hoped he realised how flimsy his reasoning had been, "And with the police always above our heads, and Thomas' teasing-"

 

Anna shook her head, "You know Thomas'd never do anything serious."

 

"Oh come on, he's tried to far too many times already-"

 

"Whatever went on with you two before is the stuff of the past. Thomas has changed."

 

Bates scoffed, and Anna gasped.

 

"He has," she said, unable to believe her husband's reaction. "I don't know if it's because O'Brien's gone or because he has Jimmy, but he's a kind man, and he's finally letting his kindness show."

 

"He might appear that way. To tell the truth, I'm still suspicious of him. But I knew that I should have been the better man and let him have his damn letters-"

 

Anna visibly flinched, "I thought you were genuinely sorry," she shook her head. She also wanted to mention that someone like Thomas had every right to be malicious - especially then, after an ordeal like that - but also because of reasons that had always been there but not many took note of; it took one look at her husband to know that she didn't have the strength to start explaining it to him, because his words painted a clear picture of his reasoning and she didn't even know where she'd start.

 

 "I thought I'd be giving him the letters. But you'll do it," she ordered, taking the letters and handing them to her husband.

 

"Anna."

 

"No. You want to be the better man, don't you? When Mrs Hughes gave me my letters, I was smiling, but I reckon that when you hand Thomas these and explain yourself he'll want to sock you in the jaw. Can't say I think he'd be entirely wrong to do so," she said and walked past him, "Now, I've got work to do, and so do you," she cast one last, pointed glance at the letters in his hand and exited the room. 

 

* * *

 

_"Jimmy works at the Regent Hotel, so I always tease him that we're meant to be enemies, though we're such good friends. He thinks me incapable of being anything close to his competition, as always, but I don't mind. He's having a hard time. Says he's writing to Ivy, but she's not writing back. Anyway, he's still as lordly as he was back at Downton, I saw him with two girls (at the same time!) once in Picadilly. It don't bother me much, though. Before, I would have been jealous of him having the attention of women-"_

 

"Didn't you say that Alfred had a lass?" Thomas asked, taking a drag of his cigarette.

 

"He did. But he says he's broken it off. There were no love," Daisy said, and she seemed entirely too pleased about it.

 

Thomas smirked, "Go on then," he said, flicking cigarette ash into an ashtray.

 

"Before... jealous... Ah - _but I'm not bothered by it anymore. He should be jealous of me, I'm really doing well here in the kitchen! The recipe for the pudding you sent me last time was "a smashing success". You'd do well here, Daisy, you're a better cook than everyone employed here. Me included. I mean it. And we've got one of the best restaurants in London!"_

 

Thomas scoffed, "What a charmer," he said with a grin, which only widened when he saw Daisy's flushed face. 

 

"He's ever so nice, Thomas. You don't suppose he's just teasing? You'd know that kind of stuff," she said hopefully, without giving her words much thought.

 

Thomas' smile fell, and he swallowed uncomfortably. He'd feel odd apologising for things he did when he was younger like leading Daisy on, but he did grace her with a honest answer, trying to sound as sincere as he possibly could, "I'd say you'd best leave him well alone - but only because I think you're too good for him. He didn't see you when he were here, so why should you give him a chance now?"

 

"Well," she began sheepishly, "I do believe people can change," she said quietly, and then added, determinedly, "I think we should embrace change."

 

Thomas laughed, "Alright - Fair enough. But I think some people can never change."

 

"You have," Daisy said, in a tone that indicated that if Thomas could change, anyone could. "You're much nicer now," she added.

 

"I'm glad you seem to think so," he said, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

 

Daisy briefly returned the smile and then lowered her gaze back to the letter, before looking back up at Thomas, "I think that's all it says about Jimmy. I'm sorry," she said.

 

"Nah, it's alright. Thank you. It's nice to see that my suspicions proved to be true. He hasn't changed."

 

Daisy gave him a sad smile, and they sat in silence for a moment until a flustered-looking Bates walked in.

 

"Thomas," he addressed the under butler, who was quick to correct him:

 

"Mr Barrow."

 

"Mr Barrow," Bates said irritatedly, "I was wondering if I could have a word. In private."

 

Thomas smirked around his cigarette, "Anything you've got to say to me, you can say in front of Daisy," he said innocently. 

 

"Please," Bates said through gritted teeth, lifting up a stack of envelopes, but forgetting that with Thomas' current knowledge of them, they'd mean absolutely nothing.

 

"I'll go get started on the tarts for tea," Daisy said, looking between them, "Thank you, Mr Barrow," she said with a smile as her eyes settled on Thomas before she stood up to leave. 

 

Thomas nodded at her and gave her a small smile, following her with his gaze as she walked out of the servants' hall, not particularly pleased at the prospect of having to talk to Bates. 

 

"What is it, then, Mr Bates?" he asked with a sigh.

 

Bates neared the table and set the envelopes in front of Thomas, who looked down at the pile in front of him. Four of the envelopes were blue and four were white, and he thought he recognized the white ones from somewhere, but it wasn't until he took one and turned it over in his hand that he recognized it. He stood up immediately, as if on impulse, and frantically fumbled with the rest of the envelopes. One of the blue ones almost sent his heart leaping out of his chest, and he fought the urge to both smile and wail in agony when he saw that there were another three of the kind.

 

He carefully examined the blue envelopes, touching gently, tracing the dried up rivers of ink that flowed, combining to form Jimmy's immaculate handwriting. 

 

He then picked up all eight envelopes and looked up at Bates.

 

"Where did you get these." he said in a carefully clipped tone, seething.

 

Bates gulped and straightened up, "They came in the post."

 

"Well not all of them did, you - " Thomas began angrily, before taking a deep breath. "When?" he asked quietly, fearing that what he suspected was true. The letters had got 'lost' in Bates' hands, and not in the post. _If these didn't arrive today, so help me -_ Thomas thought.

 

"Over the course of the month, though I don't see -"

 

Thomas would've leapt across the table and murdered him on the spot had he deemed that touching Bates in any way was worthier than touching Jimmy's letters. 

 

"What made you think you had the right to take these?" he said, interrupting, raising his voice.

 

"His Lordship told me to keep them away from you. He didn't think Kent could be trusted, and I thought that you couldn't be-"

 

"What'd you think we were writing?" he asked, laughing in disbelief. He walked around the table to stand closer to Bates.

 

"I don't know, knowing you, it could have been anything. There had been talk of some letters, someone trying to frame me for murder - it was more than a trifle shifty."

 

Thomas burst out laughing and turned his face away, _"More than a trifle shifty?"_

 

"Yes," Bates said, uncertain of what was so amusing.

 

Thomas couldn't stop laughing. "This is bloody unreal," he said, voicing his thoughts.  
  
"Did you read these?" he asked Bates, who immediately made a face.

 

"Don't be daft, you can see that they've not been opened-"

 

"There's ways to open a letter without it being noticeable, Mr Bates," he said, "But I believe you. 'Cause if you were smart enough to have read at least one of them, you'd have found out that I was writing purely because I am a hopeless bugger, not an evil one," he said and, clutching the letters in his hand, walked off.

 

"Where are you going?" Bates asked, fearing that Thomas might take the letters to one of the understanding souls of Downton such as Mrs Hughes or her Ladyship, which would be bad news for Bates himself, especially when he knew that if it came to it, his wife would testify against him.

 

"Where d'you bloody think I'm going?" Thomas snapped, turning around and walking a few steps back towards Bates. "I trust you'll be able to excuse my absence," he said, raising the handful of letters to point Bates' thoughts in the right direction, "It's you who'll be the cause of it, anyway,” with that he walked off. First, he went to his room to retrieve his coat and some money, not bothering to change but untying his tie and taking his collar off in an attempt to make himself more comfortable. He'd take the train, the bus, or the lane, whichever got him to London fastest - he didn't care if it cost him all his money. 

 

On the way out he ran into Molesley, who looked him up and down, noting his dishevelled state, but one glare from Thomas and Molesley was petrified into silence. 

* * *

 

The train turned out to be Thomas' transport of choice. He was lucky enough to be able to board after only about an hour of waiting. Both on the train and before boarding it, he had sat and stared down at the letters in his hands. The situation was entirely surreal. There was only one thing he knew - he would not open the letters nor read them until he gave Jimmy his.

He observed Jimmy's handwriting, which was entirely different from the handwriting on the torn piece of paper Thomas held in his pocket ever since Anna gave it to him. It was still recognizable as Jimmy's, though the letters were bigger, painstakingly neat, and Thomas was certain that this proper, beautiful handwriting could have been read even by illiterate toddlers. The thought of Jimmy taking his time to write out something as trivial as an address so carefully made warmth pool in his chest. 

The train ride passed with him mulling over the situation and caressing the crisp edges of the blue envelopes. 

He was angry, livid to have been wronged by Bates in what seemed to be the worst way possible, but his heart softened when he thought of the things he finally held in his hands - Jimmy's words. Jimmy's words, meant for him.

He was also terribly curious as to what Jimmy had written, but he knew that Jimmy had been wronged as much as he had, so he decided to wait until both of them could have their letters and read them.   
As much as he hated to admit it, Daisy was right - he had changed, in such a way that all the thoughts of malice seemed to disperse in the face of thoughts of love for his best friend.

 

* * *

 

The train arrived to London both too late and too early. Thomas proceeded to take the tube to the gallery and decided to walk from there. He knew his way around London quite well, but he did stop once to ask an old man for directions to Warner Street. 

The man was giving him odd looks, and even asked if he was alright - perhaps he recognized that the suit Thomas had been wearing was a servant's uniform, even though about half of it was missing, with the train ride having rumpled his coat and shirt even worse, and his trousers were beginning to lack that sharp line which let folk know that they'd been properly ironed. 

 

He smiled his best kind smile upon receiving the bit of information he needed and walked off in the suggested direction. Once he was in front of the building, and then the door to the flat, he didn't hesitate, just knocked on the door and waited for it to open, briefly wondering if maybe he should have brought a sort of gift for Jimmy, as one does when visiting a friend, but he reassured himself that the letters would suffice, especially if it turned out that Jimmy had felt even the slightest bit of what he himself had been feeling. 

 

-

 

The door was opened by a gangly blond boy who had a newspaper folded and tucked under his arm. He looked up at the under butler and his eyes widened before he gave a brilliant smile.

 

"...You're Thomas, aren't you?” he asked, staring at Thomas with wide eyes as if he were fascinated to see him.

 

Thomas' brow furrowed and he cleared his throat before nodding.

 

"I - I'm Oscar," the lad stuck his hand out for Thomas to shake, and Thomas accepted it. "He's told me about you, that's how I know," Oscar elaborated and stepped aside to let Thomas in, "I feel like I'd know you anywhere."

 

Thomas allowed himself to grin and ducked his head. 

 

Oscar gestured for him to follow him inside. 

 

"You one of Jimmy's cousins?" Thomas asked the obvious as he followed the boy through a narrow corridor. His stomach twisted in nauseous anticipation.

 

"One of two," he replied, nodding. He looked at Thomas again and pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose with his palm.

 

"What do you mean?" Thomas asked, still slowly walking behind the boy who dragged his feet into a room which Thomas recognized as a kitchen. 

 

"There's just me, Jimmy and my mother left," Oscar said with a shrug, and continued through the kitchen into another, albeit shorter, corridor, "My father, that's Jimmy's dad's brother - both of them died in the war. Not many of us Kents left," he said and paused in front of one of the two doors in the corridor. "And I don't think Jimmy'll be a great help in prolonging the bloodline," Oscar said with a smirk and looked Thomas up and down before looking at the door. Before Thomas could ask what he meant, the boy knocked on the door sharply.

 

 

 _"Just a second!"_   came the voice from the other side of the door, and Thomas' heart leapt in his chest. He could hear the faint creaking of a bed, and then some ruffling and grunting, and he'd been so immersed in listening that he almost failed to notice that Oscar had gone into the room opposite Jimmy's and closed the door behind himself.

 

While Thomas had been able to distract himself with idle chit-chat just seconds before, there was no escaping the overwhelming feeling of nervousness when he was finally standing in front of Jimmy's door, waiting for the man himself to emerge. 

 

"What is it, O-" Jimmy began, simultaneously opening the door, "Oh," he finished, his voice weak and high in pitch. His eyes widened and he took a step back, releasing the doorknob so the door slowly creaked open as he looked up at Thomas in disbelief.

 

Thomas felt his heart beating hard and fast in his chest, as if it was planning to climb up his throat and run off any second. 

He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving Jimmy's, not for a single moment; "Hello." 

 

A small smile began to tug at the corners of the younger man's lips, and then he leapt forward and hooked his arms around Thomas' neck, squeezing him tightly. He buried his head in Thomas' shoulder and smiled, and then Thomas laughed, and put his hands on Jimmy's waist.

 

"Jesus, Thomas," Jimmy said and gave him another tight squeeze before releasing him as the hug was threatening to begin looking like something more than friendly, "I can't believe you're here."

 

Thomas almost whimpered with delight at how good the name sounded coming from Jimmy's lips, but he settled for a smile. "I've missed you," Thomas said candidly.

 

"I missed you too," Jimmy said quietly, "So bloody much." He couldn't keep the smile off his face.

 

A smile that mirrored his also seemed to be permanently plastered on the older man's face. "You look good."

 

"I look terrible," said Jimmy, and although he did mean it and certainly didn't believe Thomas' flattery - his cheeks reddened and the smile didn't vanish.

He looked down at himself and noticed that he hadn't buttoned up his shirt - it hung loosely over his shoulders and on top of the white undershirt. He promptly began buttoning it, and only did every other button, as if he were in a hurry. "Sorry," he said about three times during the process.

 

"Hold on. Let me," Thomas said, and Jimmy moved closer to him. 

With able but trembling hands, Thomas reached over and undid all of the buttons first since Jimmy had buttoned them up the wrong way and then began buttoning them one by one. Jimmy looked up at him through his lashes, his gaze flicking between Thomas' concentrated expression and his nimble hands. They stood in the silent corridor for what seemed like ages, and they were both glad of it.

 

"It's really bloody nice to see you, Thomas," Jimmy said with a grin when Thomas finished buttoning his shirt, his eyes so glossy that he was afraid to blink for it might have made some of the wetness spill down his cheeks in the form of tears.

 

Thomas nodded, "You too. Won't you invite me in?" he teased.

 

Jimmy nodded furiously and led the way into his room, never leaving Thomas' side as they walked those few steps together. He had pushed the door and let it click closed on its own and then sat with Thomas on the small bed. 

 

Thomas would have gladly chosen not to ever tear his gaze away from Jimmy's face, but he willed himself to, if only to find something else but the letters to talk about. Something familiar, which would make the situation feel normal, create an atmosphere of Downton a month ago, servants' hall after dark and all.

 

It must have been quite funny that Thomas saw literature only in terms of himself. But he knew that Jimmy was the same.

 

"Have you read it?" he asked, tipping his head to indicate the bright red copy of Goethe's Faust.

 

Jimmy nodded. "Oscar told me he," here he pointed at the book, "Would remind me of myself. But he doesn't. He reminds me of you," Jimmy said, and before Thomas could ask how or why, he elaborated, "I don't mean... Not the story, obviously, or... It's just you, with your wanting to know everything," he stuttered, his face heating up as he spoke. 

 

Thomas laughed, "Fair enough."

 

Jimmy seemed to regain his confidence after this, "You'd sell your soul right this moment for a piece of good upstairs gossip," he jibed, talking as if they were still at Downton.

 

Thomas feigned a hurt expression before smirking, "And you wouldn't..?"

On his mind was a particularly convenient piece of upstairs gossip that, if things went as Thomas imagined, could aid Jimmy in his return to Downton.

 

"No," Jimmy said proudly.

 

Thomas scoffed, albeit good-naturedly; "You're saying that if in this moment, the devil walked in and offered you any bit or all the knowledge in the world, you'd refuse?"

 

Jimmy looked down at his hands. "I wouldn't trade this moment with you for anything," he said sheepishly.

And just like that, Thomas knew that things were quite a bit different than they were at Downton. Suddenly he found himself burning with the need to read those damned letters. 

 

Thomas looked at him fondly as Jimmy kept staring down into his lap. When he finally looked up at Thomas, he spoke: "I've began reading The Sorrows of Young Werther, as well."

 

"Hm. Found yourself in Werther?" Thomas asked with a grin.

 

"I'm not self aware enough to know," Jimmy said with a smile, and he knew that Thomas only saw that answer as an affirmation - a blatant "Yes", if his laugh was anything to go by.

 

Then Thomas' face fell, and before Jimmy could ask, he could see Thomas beginning to search the pockets of his own jacket. Though Thomas was still uncertain of how to broach the subject of the letters, he knew that he had to give them to Jimmy. Not long after, he pulled eight letters out of his pockets, white envelopes in his good hand, blue ones in his bad one. 

 

"What's that?" Jimmy asked and Thomas handed him the white envelopes, only to see realization dawn on his face. 

 

"I'm to be your Wilhelm, then," Thomas said lightly, gesturing at the letters.

 

Jimmy clutched the letters in his hand for a silent moment. A few tears slid down his soft cheeks and he wiped them with the back of his hand,  but he seemed to collect himself faster than Thomas had and, not looking up from the letters, said: "No... I... You're not Wilhelm, exactly... I think you ought to read those." He finally raised his head to nod at the blue envelopes in Thomas’ hands, a few stray tears still streaming down his face. 

His eyes were red and damp, and the sight broke Thomas' heart.  
  


“Did they get lost in the post?” Jimmy asked, his wet face glistening in the afternoon light.  
  
  
Thomas dared to lean in and use his knuckle to wipe the tears on Jimmy’s left cheek. “Sort of,” he said softly. Jimmy leaned into his hand, and Thomas took his time to stroke Jimmy’s cheek before he pulled away completely.   
  


Jimmy nodded, “You can tell me later,” he said, and Thomas gave a small smile as a promise.  
  
  
"Suppose I'll read about a Lotte as well,” Thomas said lightly, looking down at the blue envelopes.  
 

Jimmy couldn't help but to crack a knowing smile, "You have no idea."

   
Thomas didn't know exactly why, the smile might have simply been contagious, but he smiled as well.

  
"Thought I'd give you a chance to claim them back, if there's anything you regret writing," Thomas said with a quiet laugh. 

 

"There's really nothing I regret," Jimmy said and sniffled. 

 

Thomas nodded and looked down at the blue envelopes. Jimmy was not opening his, and he felt as if they'd both somehow telepathically agreed that they'd wait until they both had their privacy to read them.

 

"Hold on," Jimmy said, visibly worried, "I - If there's anything you regret writing - cause - I wouldn't mind - " he stammered.

 

"No," Thomas shook his head, "Not when it comes to you. I'd like you... I want you to know everything."

 

Jimmy gave him a bashful smile and leaned back against the wall, the letters in his lap.

 

Thomas leaned back as well and stacked his own letters in a small pile. "What do you say we read them on our way back to Downton?" 

 

"I can't go back to Downton," Jimmy looked up at Thomas with wide eyes, shaking his head.

 

And then it hit Thomas - Jimmy had a perfectly good life here, in London, with so many opportunities, better hours at the hotel than back at the house, and a bigger wage. 

 

"They wouldn't want me there," Jimmy continued.

 

Thomas was silent for a moment, "But you'd want to go back?" he asked timidly.

 

"Course I'd bloody want to go back!" he said, and smiled up at Thomas as his fingers lazily stroked the corners of the envelopes. The smile was a sad one, though, and Thomas was having none of it.  
He seemed to be thinking hard about something, and Jimmy leaned in closer to him.

  
“What?” Jimmy asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at Thomas.  
 

"Can I use your telephone?" Thomas asked. His thoughts drifted to earlier that day, and maybe it was a visit from Mephistopheles himself when he was bestowed with a bit of knowledge that might just help bring Jimmy home.

 

"There's a telephone down at the landlady's," Jimmy said, puzzled as to why Thomas would ask.

 

"The first door, first floor, left of the staircase?" Thomas asked.

 

"Yes," Jimmy says, straightening up in his seat, "What - Why?"

 

"I need to go downstairs and use the phone,” he said, almost excitedly. "Could you... Could you make us some tea, or something? I promise to be right back," he said and stood up from the bed, looking at Jimmy as he backed out of the room.

 

"Yeah, yes," Jimmy said, and got up reluctantly. He followed Thomas to the door, where Thomas reassured him that he's be right back, a big, mad grin on his face.

 

* * *

 

 

"The situation is as bizarre as it gets. Both for you, and him," Thomas hissed into the receiver. He glanced at the landlady who was just having her evening meal and was pretending not to be hearing him. 

 

 _"You want me to use this information with his Lordship, somehow-"_ Bates said irritatedly, _"So he'd hire James back?"_

 

"Yes," Thomas said through gritted teeth.

 

_"And how on earth am I supposed to do that?"_

 

"I don't know, Mr Bates. I thought you were quite crafty," he said venomously. "Listen, would you prefer I asked Mrs Bates?" 

 

Bates gave a deep sigh on the other end. _"I'll see what I can do."_

 

"No. You'll do it," Thomas said, "By tomorrow morning."

 

With that, he hung up the receiver, bid the landlady good night and made his way up.

 

-

 

He slept on a lumpy duvet on the floor of Jimmy's room. After a rather quiet dinner, they immediately went to bed, only neither of them seemed to be able to actually fall asleep.

"Why are your letters so big?" Thomas asked sleepily.

 

"Pardon?"

 

Thomas blushed, "Uh. I mean, your writing, on the envelopes. You don't usually write like that."

 

"Oh," Jimmy's cheeks turned a pink hue as well, though it was certainly not visible in the dark. "It's stupid. Something my mum told me years ago, that the postman won't be able to read the address unless I write it out nicely. I was afraid that my letters would get lost if I didn't write the letters carefully enough."

 

Thomas smiled in the general direction of Jimmy's voice, but said nothing for a while.

 

"Thomas? Are you asleep?" Jimmy asked.

 

"Almost," Thomas said.

 

Jimmy swung his arm over the side of the bed and found Thomas' hand with his on the duvet, entwining their fingers together.

 

"Good night," Jimmy whispered. 

 

Thomas squeezed his hand gently, his pulse racing so it almost completely woke him up. He thought about sneaking off and reading the letters in private so he’d finally be able to understand exactly what had transpired while they were separated, but the feel of Jimmy’s hand in his was too good to let go of. 

 

"Good night."

 

* * *

 

A few hours before, he had relayed to Jimmy the entire plan for their trip back to Downton, but not the entirety of his plan about getting Jimmy his position of footman back. 

He decided that that was something he'd worry about later. And if after Jimmy was rehired the devil came along with a contract for Thomas' soul, he’dgladly sign it off if it meant he got to keep Jimmy by his side.

 


	8. The Eleven o'clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we made it.. this chapter is a bit nsfw near the end,, enjoy, friends

** Chapter 8 **

Lord Grantham often thought he knew what other people were telling him even when they weren't actually speaking — he had been convinced that this was the reality of his situation since his adolescence, and this strange reasoning would persist in his mind until the very day of his death.  
As a very privileged youth, he had begun suspecting that there was more to him than good blood - that he had also been given the gift of perceptive intelligence and permanent alertness.  
It would not be until he was middle-aged that he'd first think that he might not have been the only one with that peculiar gift. When he discovered a man with similar powers, he was at least pleased to find that it was a man similar to him - an ally, in a way. He was pleased to find that it was his good man Bates.

"What is it?" Robert hated to ask, because really - he knew; the police were still looming over John's head, though as of late they actually seemed to be more inclined toward his wife, something Bates undoubtedly found unsettling.

"Well, there is something - if you don't mind me saying, my lord - " these words, uttered on the warm night of the fifth day in the sixth month of 1924 would mark the beginning of a statement which would forever change Robert's opinion of other men. He would, of course, view the sudden wariness prompted by the statement as a definite advantage which could only aid him in his future endeavours.

"I think you should hire James Kent back," Bates stated - and went on when he saw he was about to be interrupted, "Only because the lad's doing very poorly. You see, Mr Barrow has read some of those letters, and - well - what I mean to say is - to hire him back would prove useful for you. You'd be seen as kind, merciful, even - if you were to give him his old job back... After all, his misconduct was not a great one. He only yielded under the pressure any man could yield under. Even a man like me... Or you," Bates said, trying very hard not to make the last bit sound like a question. While Thomas had proved to be cunningly resourceful and honest in his previous grants of information, Bates still felt that to trust him was to take on a great risk. Additionally, unlike the previous time when if the information Thomas had conferred had been false or useless Bates would simply have had to suffer through an embarrassing conversation with a malicious woman, this time - more was at stake. He was in danger of losing his job merely by mentioning something so scandalous and if Lord Grantham had seen it as insolent, Bates would have been out the window not a second after the words were past his lips.  
However, Bates would much rather have lost his job than his wife.

 

* * *

 

Before he had been forced to go up to his Lordship's quarters, Bates had sought his wife in the busy confines of the downstairs. He spotted her taking a breath in the servants' hall just moments before she was to go up and dress Lady Mary.

She was the one that stood up and approached him in the doorway, perhaps to greet him - but she wasn't given a chance to.

"How did Thomas know that you knew?" he asked quietly, pulling her aside.

"What?" she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

Bates sighed, as if horribly aggravated by the fact that she was unable to read minds, but kept his tone light in favour of reconciliation, "He's telephoned, and he says that you know about the letters, and knows you would help him if I didn't. I never told him that you knew about the letters - and he seems to know that we weren't in it together-"

Anna ignored the latter part of this pointless statement - surely, her husband knew what the only possible outcome of this conversation would have been - and addressed the former: "Of course I would help, and I told him, yes - I apologised for causing so much trouble." She paused for a moment, and spoke, still just above a whisper even though she knew that if any one of the other staff were set on finding out what she and her husband were discussing they would have found a way; "Just before he went out the door. He asked me to tell Mr Carson that there's been a family emergency," she stammered, not because she thought she wasn't right to have done so, but because something else was on her mind. "How can you help?" she asked.

"I might be able to talk his Lordship into hiring Jimmy back."

Anna gasped. "You must!"

Bates bestowed a slight smile upon her, "I will. Don't worry."

Anna mirrored the smile, though in a more genuine fashion. "Then go," she said, almost breathlessly, so he smiled and went.

 

* * *

 

Robert's mouth went dry. "What?" he breathed out.

"I know about Jane - the maid, m - " Bates began confidently, but was interrupted.

"Are you threatening me?" Robert all but gasped out, trying to keep the panic inaudible.

"No, m'lord, of course not," Bates stuttered, aghast, "But I am afraid that if it were ever to be found out... You might seem like, well..."

"Well what?" Robert asked, taking a step closer to him, "Speak, man!"

"A hypocrite."

Robert sighed, resigned, and turned to look out the window. "I'll be worse than a hypocrite."

Bates kept quiet.

"Does anyone else know?" Robert asked in a subdued tone.

"I don't think so, m'lord," Bates lied, "But if anyone did find out - wouldn't it be good to give a good example of unconditional forgiveness now?"

He could see Robert bow his head in consideration even though the man had his back turned to him.

"Does her Ladyship know about James?"

"Yes," he said, "She guessed what had transpired as soon as I told her that I couldn't tell her why he'd be leaving us." He sounded almost proud of his wife.

Bates nodded, and gave his Lordship a moment before he spoke again: "If you forgave the lad now, it would truly make your own mishap more easily forgivable."  
"I see." Robert turned to face Bates again, "But where would I even find James now?"

"Don't worry about that, m'lord. I'll take care of everything," Bates said with a reassuring smile.

"Thank you," Robert nodded, though he could not find it in himself to smile, "Now help me get dressed for this damned dinner."

 

* * *

 

  
June 6th

 

The weather had changed.

His hand would have been damp with sweat even if it wasn't entwined with Thomas' left one, he supposed.

Jimmy rose just as the first timid sunbeam shone through the window. He rolled over just in time to see it settle on Thomas' sleeping face and took a quiet moment to admire it before getting up to close the curtains. The slight frown that had formed on Thomas' face as a reaction to the intruding sunlight smoothed out into an expression of pleasant content.

Jimmy grinned at his sleeping form and tiptoed toward the door, pausing only to take his letters from under his pillow. He contemplated opening one, but decided to make some tea and breakfast first in case Thomas was hungry when he woke up.  
The whole thing possessed an odd air of domesticity, and Jimmy relished it.

Tea for two was easy enough to make, but making anything edible besides toast was not Jimmy's forte. He would try, though, to boil an egg at least, because to merely make toast for Thomas would not have felt like enough.  
He had set four eggs out on the counter and was just beginning to pour water into a red polka-dot pot when he heard the distinct sound of a door opening and closing coming from the other side of the flat. He placed the pot on the stove and managed to set the small fire under it alight when his aunt walked into the room.

"Good morning," she said as she picked her glasses out of her hair and lowered them onto her nose.

"Morning," he replied, looking over his shoulder.

"I might let you invite more strange men into my house if you're going to start making breakfast," she said, walking over to scour one of the cupboards for a pack of cigarettes.

The tips of Jimmy's ears reddened and he bowed his head, staring resolutely at the placid surface of the heating water. "Sorry - " he began.

"I don't mind it," she said, approaching the stove. She placed a gentle hand on his arm, "But you might want to put the eggs in now that the water's still tepid - the shells sometimes burst in boiling water," she advised.

"Oh - Right," he stammered and carefully lowered the eggs into the lukewarm pot. He turned to face his aunt. "You really don't mind having Thomas here? I mean, I know I should have told you, but he were knackered from the trip and all, so we went to bed before you came home," he said nervously, apologetic.

" 'Course I don't mind, I can't wait to meet him now he's here! What with the way you've been banging on about him - "

"Alright," Jimmy said with a laugh, the blush spreading down the back of his neck and to his cheeks, "Thanks."

"Think nothing of it," she said. She took a cigarette and lit it, whilst asking: "How long's your friend staying?"

Jimmy bit his lips, averting his gaze so his eyes were soon fixated on the first thing they settled on, which was the leg of a chair. "We're not staying," he said quietly before looking up at her. "I... I'm going back to Downton. And I know you said that having me here helps - and - I can still send you and Oscar some money - " he rambled.

"Oh don't worry," she said with a smile, "We'll do fine. We have been surviving without you for all this time, if I may add."

"Right," he said, cracking a relieved smile. "Right."

"I'm happy for you," Irene said, and Jimmy was about to express his gratitude again when her eyes lit upon the small pile of envelopes on the counter. "Oscar's told me about these," she said with a nod in the envelopes' direction. "Lost in the post?" she enquired, sticking the cigarette between her lips as she picked one of the envelopes up.

Jimmy blanked. "Something like that. I... I don't actually know," he mumbled.

“What d’you mean you don't - hold on," she frowned, "Have you not opened these?"

Jimmy's mouth hung open for a second before he spoke warily, "I wanted to wait until we can both do it, but I also wanted to give him some privacy..." Irene observed him as he spoke, and he continued, leaning on the counter awkwardly. "Suppose I need some privacy as well," he muttered and sought bread for the toast as the first bubbles rose to the surface of the water in the polka-dot pot.

Irene saw right through him. "Will these letters tell you of your future with him?"

Jimmy nodded and then averted his gaze to stubbornly stare at the boiling water. " 'm afraid to read 'em," he mumbled, "What if he's moved on?"

Irene shook her head, "You're forgetting that he's here, Jimmy. For you."

"As a friend," Jimmy said forlornly, though the memory of them holding hands throughout the night gave him hope that Thomas' intentions were still more than friendly.

"You're ready to go to Downton with him, even if he plans to be only a friend to you?"

"Yes," Jimmy said immediately, "If he says that that's all we can be, I'll gladly take him up on it. But I've missed him too much to be away from him again."

"Alright."

A moment of silence passed as Jimmy took the pot from the stove and set it aside, only to put out the fire and look for the toaster.

"He's got you your old job back, then?" Irene offered lightly, tapping her cigarette in the glass ashtray.

"Well, he says he will," Jimmy said slowly.

" _He says_ \- " she paused in disbelief, "How?" she blurted.

The question made Jimmy freeze on the spot. "I - I don't know," he admitted, "I was going to ask him."

"Jimmy," she suddenly seemed apprehensive about the idea of Thomas, "Are you absolutely sure that you want to do this? You've got a good life here - your job pays better, you could rent a place of your own soon and - do you want to risk it all? For him?"

Jimmy pressed his lips together for a moment. "That's the thing," he said, "I do. I mean, I'd trust him with my life. I might be mad, but it's not really a risk to me," he said confidently, finally looking up at her eyes properly.  
Her finely-plucked eyebrows shot up in surprise, but Jimmy went on.

"Thomas's the best man I've ever known. I don't know if there's anyone I trust more."

 

* * *

 

Thomas awoke to the feeling of something pressing on his chest, as if kneading. He grunted and shifted in discomfort, but the pressure did not wane, so he was forced to open his eyes and have them meet with a pair of cat ones. Thomas raised his upper body slightly and leaned back against his elbows, eyeing the cat as it settled on his abdomen.

"Hello," he said with a small smile. The cat didn't seem to register it, and extended its front paws to lie more comfortably on top of Thomas.

"Alright," he muttered and reached over with one hand to take the cat before getting up. He placed the cat gently on top of the duvet. "There", he muttered to the cat, unsure of why he was doing it, "You can sleep there."

The cat didn't seem to be interested for as soon as its paws touched the duvet, it meowed and got up, walking over to Thomas' bare feet. He leaned over to pet its head before walking over to a chair in the corner to retrieve his clothing.

 

* * *

 

_"I might be mad-"_

The cat walked around Thomas' feet as he was on his way to the kitchen.

_"- not really a risk to me..."_

Jimmy's voice was louder with every step he took and it was becoming harder to avoid the cat as it wove its way around his feet.

"Thomas's the best man I've ever known. I don't know if there's anyone I trust more."

Thomas almost tripped over the cat.  
He made a turn and stumbled into the kitchen, where he could see Jimmy, still in his pyjamas, leaning against the counter as a woman just a few years older than Thomas stared at him, the cigarette in her hand dusting ash and littering the counter.

Thomas trod his way over warily, taking his own pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

"Good morning," he said, looking at Irene. His eyes flicked briefly to Jimmy, who gave him a bashful smile and muttered a "G'mornin'," in reply.

"Good morning," Irene said cheerfully, but with careful regard.

Thomas extended his right hand at the same time as she did hers.

"Thomas," he said shortly, a polite smile adorning his face.

"Irene," she replied and released his hand, after which he was free to light a cigarette. "I see he likes you."  
It took Thomas a moment to realise that she'd meant the cat.

"Namesakes," Jimmy said wisely and bent to pick the cat up into his arms.

Thomas laughed, "Your cat's name is Thomas?" he asked incredulously, and Jimmy replied: "Well, not Thomas - Tommy - but that's -"

"The cat's name's Timmy," Irene said, eyeing Jimmy warily, "As in Timothy."

Jimmy's cheeks burned red, "Oh. Right. I keep mixing it up. It _is_ just one letter..."

"It's more than a letter," Irene said, "It's a pet name." And it was only the nod of her head in Thomas' direction that signalled who it was a pet name for. Thomas shifted on his feet, almost bashful.

"Jimmy tells me that you're a teacher," Thomas said, looking at Irene.

"Oh, yes," she said.

"What do you teach?"

"Mathematics at the grammar school."

As they talked, Jimmy busied himself with petting the cat, who was sticking its head in the crook of his elbow and purring lovingly. After a few moments, he set the cat down on the floor. The two pieces of toast jumped up out of the toaster and Jimmy looked up at Thomas to see the man smiling a smile as soft as the cat's hair at him.

"Can I have a cigarette?" he asked Thomas, his hands fidgeting at his sides.

"I believe it's _'May I have a cigarette'_ , at least when you're in the presence of a teacher," Thomas said with a smirk and handed him the entire pack.

Jimmy bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling while his aunt laughed as he'd never heard her laugh before.

"This one might just be worth moving to Yorkshire for," she said approvingly. "Speaking of moving, it's me who needs to get a move-on," she then said. "When are you leaving?"  
Jimmy looked up at Thomas for an answer.

"The eleven o'clock train," Thomas technically spoke to Irene but his eyes never left Jimmy's, and then he addressed Jimmy, "Can you pack up by then?" he asked considerately. Jimmy nodded.

"Well," Irene sighed, putting her cigarette out. "I suppose this is good-bye, then," she said. "Write to us, love, will you?" she asked with a smile which Jimmy reciprocated.

"I will," his eyes briefly shot up at Thomas, who acknowledged his gaze with a smile.

"If there's anything else you need, just ask Oscar. Right," she took her cigarettes, "I really need to go. Have a safe trip," she looked at Thomas and then the eggs and toast on the counter, "And a nice meal."

Thomas' gaze followed hers down to the pot on the counter but he waited for them to say their goodbyes and for her to exit the room before he addressed it.  
"You cooked?" he asked, replacing Irene in her counter spot and taking a drag of his cigarette. Jimmy set the pack of cigarettes aside with his letters to take a plate and put the food onto it.  
"I tried," he said sincerely, making Thomas want to envelop him in a hug.  
Jimmy smiled at Thomas and carried the food and the tea over to the table.  
Thomas opened the curtains and the windows, letting the fresh, as fresh as London could be, warm air stream into the flat. When Jimmy sat down, Thomas brought him his letters and the cigarettes, and took his own letters out to place them on the table next to Jimmy's.

Jimmy looked at the letters nervously. "We didn't get to talk much yesterday," he said frantically, "I - uh - tell me what's been going on with you. Without spoiling these," he said with a grin, pointing at the letters. He tried for lightness, but really he would have hated it if Thomas had sank all of his hopes before he gave the letter a chance to do so. He would have been more comfortable if the blow, if one was to come, came from the inanimate letter than from the man himself.

"Not really much to say," Thomas said hesitantly. Unbeknownst to Jimmy, he appreciated the letters for a similar reason. They seemed to him as a means of discovering Jimmy's intentions without embarrassing himself or Jimmy by asking him outright. He hadn't thought of it before, didn't think Jimmy could have any intentions, but after the previous night's hand holding, an ember of hope glowed within him.  
It was still just a tiny bit of hope, something he wouldn't act upon, not if Jimmy didn't initiate anything, and not until he read the letters. If over the course of the month they'd spent apart, Jimmy's letters had stayed purely friendly and informative, it would have meant a slight awkwardness on Thomas' part because of the contents of the letters he'd written but it was nothing he couldn't live with. Nothing he hadn't lived with, and nothing he couldn't teach himself to be more than happy with.

Yet as soon as he looked at the letters, the ember of hope would make his chest catch fire. There was something so obviously endearing about the letters that he couldn't help but scold himself for not noticing immediately, and that was the amount of them. Even though Jimmy must have thought that Thomas was ignoring his letters for some reason, he still deemed Thomas worthy of being written to four times.

"What happened to these, anyway?" Jimmy asked through a mouthful of toast, gaze alternating between his and Thomas' letters, "You said Bates...?"

Thomas nodded. "I spoke to Anna just before I were on my way to London. She told me you telephoned, and that if you hadn't mentioned the letters she wouldn't have pieced it together that he were taking them."

Indignation sparked in Jimmy's eyes. "But why'd he take them?"

"Thought you and I were talking to the police, trying to frame him for murder or summat'."

Jimmy snorted. "Us?"

Thomas nodded. "I suspect Baxter would know about it more than me, but I can't blame him for thinking it's me. I mean I can blame him, I'm just not surprised. Him and I go way back," he said.

"Can't pretend I haven't heard about that," Jimmy admitted, taking a sip of tea.

"Oh?" Thomas raised his eyebrows, "And what have you heard, pray?"

Jimmy gave a slight smile and looked away. "Well," he began, "Sometimes people at Downton - well, Daisy, mostly - would tell me that you were - y'know - sort of - evil... Before me. Bad, y'know. Dangerous," he said and smirked. Thomas' eyebrows were so high up they almost met his hairline.  
"And I believe her," Jimmy said confidently.

Thomas smiled. "And you think you changed me?"

"Well," Jimmy shrugged. "You changed me," he mumbled, and at first it seemed as if he was embarrassed about saying it but then he met Thomas' gaze and smiled fondly.

It was Thomas' turn to blush. How could he not, when the fire lit in his chest was spreading to every corner of his body?

"You need to eat something," Jimmy said, pushing Thomas' plate toward him. Thomas took a piece of toast after noticing that indeed the only thing he'd been giving his attention to besides Jimmy was his cigarette. The food on Jimmy's plate had all been eaten and Thomas offered him some of his.

"No thanks," Jimmy said and instead took a cigarette.

"Tell me about you, then," Thomas prompted. "Heard you've been working in a hotel."

"As long as you've heard about it already," Jimmy muttered, "Wouldn't want to spoil your letter," he elaborated, making Thomas laugh.  
" 's not a lot different than Downton," Jimmy tried for nonchalance, "Though the hours are better," he paused, "And it pays better..."

"You sure you want to go back?" Thomas asked incredulously.

"Yes!" Jimmy shot out immediately. "I mean. I've missed it, is all - I do. I do want to go."

"Alright," Thomas said lightly and took a sip of his tea. "D'you need help packing?"

 

* * *

 

"Right, so - you just get in here, and I'll board the last car," Jimmy said.

"We should meet at the station in York, then," Thomas suggested. "The train does make a few stops, but... We'll have more than two hours until York - it'll give us both enough time to read the letters, and we won't have to worry about interrupting."

Jimmy nodded in agreement. "Yes. Yes, good - alright."

"I'll see you later, then," Thomas said with a proffered hand.

"See you," Jimmy took it, the lingering grasp as he took a step back signalling the promise of something greater than a merely friendly meeting when they saw each other again. Jimmy took his time letting go of Thomas' fingers, walking away and looking over his shoulder until Thomas was swallowed by the crowd.

 

* * *

 

Thomas never thought that he wouldn't be able to get through the ordeal without crying.

He had settled easily into the train car and watched as a red-headed child sat next to him - whose mother, sitting in the seat opposite, next to what was undoubtedly the boy's sister, smiled at him, as if hoping for Thomas' understanding. Thomas acknowledged it with a nod, secretly pleased that he didn't look rumpled enough for mothers not to want their children to go near him. The boy was about six years old, and deeply immersed in an illustrated children's book of some sort, until Thomas read the beginning of Jimmy's first letter, in which the lad had apologised for not writing sooner, and the boy saw his eyes water.

He had taken to quietly studying Thomas, then, and the latter noticed the young man looking over at him quite a few times but couldn't bring himself to care.

_You would like it here. There's a lot of beautiful men, so I fit right in._

_For what it's worth, I think you would fit right in as well._

His gaze sailed smoothly over the words, which seemed to be spraying water into his eyes.

_My problem is that I feel alone even when I’m in company. Good company._

_I wish I could go back and fix it. I was stupid._

Thomas' gaze reflected waves of regret and sorrow.

_It’s the future that matters, and I only wish the best for you._

The first tear slid down his cheek then, and he let the wet trail it left behind linger there, as more tears were bound to follow. The situation was ridiculous, he thought, bizarre, unbelievable. He didn't even let himself think about what would have happened if Jimmy hadn't called, or if it hadn't been Anna who'd overheard him calling - if eventually he had not come to London and let Jimmy live his entire life with the thought that Thomas could abandon him. He didn't let himself think about it because to make himself even more sad by thinking how lucky he'd actually been in this most unlucky situation would not have been the best thing, so instead he tore through the next envelope.

_I hate to have caused you so much pain in the past._

He was not prepared for what he would find in the next one. It was a short letter again, but held so much meaning. The tone of his writing had changed.

_I've almost sorted these unconventional feelings out, and I want to share my happiness with you, because it'll mean twice as much if I do._

_I can't really say it outright, but I'd like you to know that I've realised you and I are more alike than I thought._

Thomas wept silently, a small smile on his face.

"Mister?"

He wiped his tears on his sleeve and turned to face the source of the small voice.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Thomas nodded and let his smile widen. "Amazing."

The boy sighed in relief. "Oh, good. I... I was wondering if I could sit next to the window?"

Thomas wiped his still damp cheek with the back of his hand again and nodded before switching seats with the boy.

"Thank you," the boy said and propped up his chin with his hands on the armrest and stared out at the moving landscape.

He stacked the opened letters in his lap and opened the last one.

_I love you,_

_I always have, and I’m afraid that I always will._

 

 

* * *

The train stopped in Peterborough. Jimmy had read his letters far before it did, but stayed in his spot, honouring Thomas' suggestion that they give each other some time and meet in York. When the people that were supposed to embark and disembark the train did so and it was on its way again, in front of Jimmy was more than an hour of pondering over what he'd just read.

_I want to tell you the truth about my state and how truly foul it has been since you left._

In Thomas' letters, there were certain things that would make one think Thomas still felt the same way about him, but there were no explicit declarations of love.  
Jimmy didn't feel at all disappointed about it. The thing he wished most of in the world was to have his affections returned, but in that moment, all he needed was for Thomas to know that Jimmy loved him. He needed Thomas to know that Jimmy was there for him, and would always be there to take care of him and never let him put himself through something like that again. He wanted to run to the front of the train, and kiss Thomas and hit him for doing himself such harm, but Thomas had asked him to wait.

So he would sit in agony until they reached York. He would give Thomas all the time in the world, because Thomas had waited so long for him.

 

* * *

 

The train stopped at its final destination and Thomas could hear people behind him shuffling about as they got ready to make their way to the exits.

"Why were you crying?"

Thomas looked to his left to see the boy looking at him and laughed quietly.

"Elliot, leave the good man alone," the boy's mother said kindly, standing up to retrieve her own things. "I'm sorry," she said with a smile to Thomas who shook his head.

"It's alright," Thomas said, standing up to let the boy pass.

 

"But I don't want him to be sad," the boy told his mother. He turned to face Thomas again and looked up at him. "Here," he said, thrusting the book he'd been reading toward Thomas, "This is my favourite book. It always makes me happy when I'm sad," he said.

Thomas shook his head, "I can't accept it - it's your favourite book," he said kindly. The boy seemed to consider it.

"I want you to have it." he placed it on the seat next to Thomas' and took his mother's hand.

"Thank you," Thomas said and picked it up - an old copy of _The Velveteen Rabbit,_ worn from reading.

"I hope he hasn't been bothering you too much," the woman said to Thomas, who shook his head. "No - of course not."

The woman smiled and led the boy and his sister out of the train. Thomas watched them as they went, taking a deep breath to calm his beating heart before slowly following in their steps and walking out onto the sunlit ground of the station.

 

* * *

 

_"Oi, git!"_

_"Look at what you've done to my coat!"_

Jimmy would have said sorry, would have remunerated the man for letting his coat get torn by Jimmy's valise as he struggled to run with it to the front of the train.  
But he'd almost tripped loads of people, and he'd almost fallen down himself multiple times, so he decided that the man wasn't worth his time and instead kept running as the people walked out of the train and the crowd thickened.  
When he was fairly close to the car Thomas was in, he spotted Thomas leaving it and stopped, taking a breath as he watched him before swiftly making his way over.

Thomas was probably about to greet him, for he opened his mouth to speak, when Jimmy dropped his valise and ran into his arms, burying his face in Thomas' neck like a wife who'd just seen her husband for the first time after months at war.

"Don't you ever think about hurting yourself like that again," he whispered, his tears staining Thomas' collar.  
Thomas nodded, and slowly wrapped his arms around Jimmy as the latter grabbed the back of his jacket and pulled him as close as he could, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps.

In his peripheral vision Thomas could see people streaming beside them. It would not be until the station had almost cleared that Jimmy would let him go, allow Thomas to wipe his tears again, and ask him to take him home.

 

* * *

 

They didn't address the letters until later that night. Neither on the bus to Downton, nor while Thomas ran around making sure the entirety of his plan was perfectly realised, while Jimmy greeted everyone and took his time unpacking.

It was only when Jimmy climbed downstairs after dinner and unpacking that he heard Thomas mention the letters, but to someone else.

_"...about you?"_

Jimmy overheard Anna, and stood just outside the kitchen as he listened to Thomas' reply.

_"I believe him... I mean, I really want to. But it seems like a dream. Like he might not feel the same anymore, maybe it was just when we were apart -"_

_"No, I mean, do you feel the same?"_

Jimmy's breath caught in his throat.

 _"I do. I love him, dearly,"_ Thomas murmured.

"There it is, then -" Anna began with a smile which fell when she noticed Jimmy standing in the doorway.  
They stood in silence for a bit, Anna looking between them.

"Anna, close your eyes," Jimmy said, and Thomas' cheeks went pink. He took a step back, surprised, and stared at Jimmy.

"Wh - Why?" Anna asked, though he suspected she knew.

" 'Cause I'm gonna bloody kiss him, aren't I -" Jimmy said and took a step forward, and shot her a second-long sideways glance.

"Oh," Anna said and walked over to the door quickly before slipping out, simultaneously checking if there was anyone else who might enter the kitchen.

He approached the flustered Thomas and gave the man no chance to react as he grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and fiercely pressed their lips together. Thomas reciprocated, kissing him with fervour, his hands coming up to bunch in the fabric of Jimmy's own jacket.

When they broke apart for a breath of air, Jimmy's hand came up to Thomas' cheek. Neither of them said anything for a while, until Jimmy spoke, a sad smile on his lips.

"I take it you really missed me?"

"Like hell," Thomas whispered.

"What you did to yourself... It was because of me?"

Thomas nodded hesitantly, and Jimmy's grip on him tightened.

"It wasn't your fault - of course it wasn't. It was something that was waiting to happen for a long time, I think - " Thomas elaborated quietly, "But when you were gone, even just that first week, I found myself thinking about you the entire time. I missed you so much it hurt. I thought I'd never see you again, but I knew I couldn't stop loving you, and I always knew that the therapy wouldn't change my feelings, and it could only leave me without any feelings at all," he stopped, averting his gaze from Jimmy's slightly damp eyes, "But I still don't see a point in having feelings if they're not aimed at you."

"You're unbelievable," Jimmy whispered, looking over Thomas' features as they settled into a sad smile. Thomas looked up into his face, his lips parting in incredulity.

"Made you cry again," Thomas said and reached out to place a hand on Jimmy's cheek, absently wiping a tear away with his thumb.

"Sorry," Jimmy muttered, "And I'm sorry I kissed you now, like this, almost 'front of Anna," he mumbled.

"Don't apologise," Thomas said with a smile.

Jimmy blushed. "I've been thinking a lot about you, about this. I wanted to kiss you soon as I saw you at my door. But I was afraid that maybe you didn't feel the same anymore. And then I heard you say it, and I... Couldn't help myself."

"Kiss me again," Thomas said with a smile.

Jimmy didn't hesitate for a moment and just leaned in, reconnecting their lips. Thomas' eyes widened in surprise and he fought the urge to laugh at Jimmy's eagerness, but he just closed his eyes and pressed his lips against Jimmy's.  
The kiss quickly grew into something more fervent, as both of them sought a place they'd most like to put their hands on each other's bodies, all the while bestowing breathless kisses upon each other.  
It was a while before Thomas finally broke away. "Jimmy-"

"Come on," Jimmy whispered, taking Thomas' hand, "We shouldn't be doing this here."

 

* * *

 

Jimmy pulled him up the stairs and through the corridors by his hand hastily, pausing to kiss him again in front of his door and making them stumble into Thomas' room.

"Jimmy," Thomas babbled in a whisper once they were inside, "That letter were lovely - all of them were, and I - I haven't told you how sorry - "

Jimmy silenced him with a kiss, languidly connecting their tongues as Thomas struggled to close the door behind him with quivering hands.

"You're one to talk," Jimmy said when he finally broke the kiss. "But don't - let's not talk about that now."

Thomas tenderly took Jimmy's face into his hands and kissed him. Both contemplated saying something again, but decided against it, and instead kissed until they were both out of breath.  
They revelled in each other's company, in each other's proximity.

Having the man who was a permanent resident of his dreams, daydreams and nightly-daydreams so close was having the anticipated effect on Jimmy.

Jimmy grinned, looking over Thomas and touching his face and neck and kissing him all over as if he couldn't believe the man was real, and then he laughed, his eyes wet with tears, and Thomas smiled widely in understanding.

"I've missed you so much, Thomas," he whispered, shaking his head as the laugh subsided.

"I know - I've missed you too," Thomas nodded.

"It's amazing to be back here - with you - I -" he paused, looking at Thomas' face.  
"I don't want to spend a minute away from you ever again," Jimmy said. Thomas nodded, pressing his forehead against Jimmy's.

Jimmy pulled him closer and together they walked over to the bed, where he sat down and waited for Thomas to join him. Thomas took his jacket off and threw it on the bedpost before sitting down next to Jimmy and reclaiming his lips. They kissed and kissed, Thomas focusing slightly more on Jimmy's mouth while Jimmy peppered small kisses all over Thomas' face. When Thomas' lips slid down Jimmy's jaw and his teeth grazed Jimmy's neck before he gently nipped at it, Jimmy pulled him down onto the bed to lie next to him and began unbuttoning the buttons on his own shirt.

Thomas noticed this and kissed him again before mirroring his actions. When both their shirts lay discarded on the floor, Jimmy pulled Thomas on top of him and ran his hands gently over Thomas' naked back before dragging them down to pull at the waistband of Thomas' trousers.  
He dipped his hands underneath it and palmed Thomas' arse, making the latter chuckle and kiss him again before unbuttoning his trousers and pulling them down.  
Jimmy watched as Thomas got up to take his trousers off, noticing the way his erection was tenting the front of his pants. Jimmy made quick work of his own trousers, making it slightly more evident that he was in a similar state himself.  
Thomas smiled at him and climbed back on top of him on the bed, straddling him. Jimmy took the time to admire him, his hands coming up to stroke Thomas' chest and tangle in the dusting of dark hair which he followed down to his pants, over the slight swell of Thomas' belly.  
Thomas leaned down to capture his lips in a kiss again, and one of his hands found Jimmy's as he rutted against him, his erection sliding perfectly next to Jimmy's.  
Jimmy's hand found its way beneath the waistband of Thomas' pants and the slightly thicker hair surrounding Thomas' prick.

Jimmy gasped when his hand brushed against Thomas' erection and he looked up into Thomas' eyes as he determinedly wrapped his hand around it, watching Thomas as his lips parted in a quiet moan.

"Beautiful," Jimmy whispered and his eyes roamed over Thomas' body, before settling on his pants which he was attempting to remove with one hand.

Thomas kissed his nose and aided him, his cock almost springing up once it was released. Jimmy thrust his hips upward and Thomas' erection rubbed against Jimmy's still clothed one, making them both groan.  
It was not long before Thomas helped Jimmy out of his own pants and they were free to delight in the feeling of skin-on-skin contact.

One of Jimmy's hands was pinned by Thomas' gloved one to the mattress next to his head, Thomas' fingers entwined with his, while the other was still between his and Thomas' body, guiding Thomas' cock until it was aligned with his own. Thomas thrust forward and Jimmy raised his hips slightly to meet him, releasing Thomas' cock from his grasp as his hand came up to hold onto Thomas' shoulder.

"Thomas," he whimpered, holding onto him for support as he thrust up needily.

Thomas wrapped his free hand around both of their cocks and stroked up and down, bringing them off slowly. Jimmy's fingers dug into his shoulder as he writhed and moaned beneath him, always asking for more, closer, and faster.  
Jimmy was babbling Thomas' name when he came, and he had pulled Thomas in for another kiss when the latter followed.

Thomas' slightly clammy forehead was pressed against Jimmy's and he tipped his chin down to give him a peck. He then disentangled his limbs from Jimmy's and lay on his side beside him.  
When his breathing stilled, Jimmy turned to face him.

"Wait," Thomas said suddenly, "What day is it?"

Jimmy glanced over his shoulder to check the clock, "Uhh... Saturday. Seventh of June," he informed him.  
"Huh," Thomas mused, "I were supposed to continue with therapy today"

Jimmy's eyes widened in fear, making Thomas smile.

"I'm not going to," he said, "If that weren't obvious."

Jimmy sighed in relief. "Good," he said, leaning in to press a kiss to Thomas' cheek. "I'd hate for you to stop loving me."

"Don't think I could ever do that," Thomas said sincerely, "Therapy or no."

Jimmy leaned in again, but this time to press a kiss to his lips. "Me too."

"Well I always knew you loved yourself, but - " Thomas teased, earning an indignant nudge to the collarbone from Jimmy.

"Y'know what I mean," Jimmy said with a huff.

"I do," Thomas smiled, because he did, and it made him want to weep with joy.  
He reached up to remove a stray lock of hair from Jimmy's forehead, and then stroked his hair lovingly as Jimmy closed his eyes and hummed blissfully.

"Wait here," Thomas said quietly.  
He got up and found a flannel to clean them up. When he wiped the sticky substance off their chests, Thomas threw the flannel into a washbasin in the corner of the room and joined Jimmy back in bed, where the latter mumbled something contentedly.

"What?" Thomas asked, pulling the coverlet over them.

"I could be your rosy-cheeked village girl," Jimmy mumbled, his eyes closed, his hands blindly looking to pull Thomas closer.

"Go to sleep, Jimmy," Thomas said with a laugh and let Jimmy wrap his arms around him.

 

* * *

 

Jimmy was awoken by Thomas' absence from the bed and the noises he was making with his desk drawers. He slowly opened one eye and watched Thomas fumble with the drawers, already in full livery.

"Shit," Jimmy said hoarsely, opening both his eyes and blinking the sleep away. "How long've we slept?"

"I'm half an hour late - " Thomas said and stuck the book he'd been holding into the drawer. "I need to go," he said, pushing the drawer to shut it but it stuck halfway. He decided to leave it for now and made for the door, taking his jacket from the bedpost.

"Thomas," Jimmy mumbled, sitting up. "When will I see you again?"

"You can see me anytime," Thomas said, his hand on the doorknob.

"No, I mean, properly see you," Jimmy said.  
Thomas paused, dropping his hand from the doorknob. "You've still got today off, haven't you?" Jimmy nodded and Thomas took a few steps closer to the bed. "I'll try to wangle the afternoon off, alright?" he asked and Jimmy responded with a bright smile.  
Jimmy crawled over to the edge of the bed, wrapping the coverlet around himself almost shyly. Thomas took another step toward the bed and leaned down to kiss him. "Get some more sleep," he instructed. "If we're lucky, you won't be getting much tonight."

Jimmy's cheeks reddened and he lay back down on the bed, looking up at Thomas with a smile. "Last night were amazing," he said. Thomas nodded and mirrored the smile, wishing that he could climb into the bed right at that moment, but instead made his way back toward the door.

"I'll see you later."

"I'll miss you," Jimmy said soppily and laughed. Thomas smirked at him and opened the door. After he was out of the room, Jimmy heaved an even soppier sigh.

He closed his eyes and inhaled, enjoying the smell of Thomas' room.  
But soon he felt too hot and too bored without Thomas so he got up to open the window. Just as he was putting his pants on, he noticed the half-opened drawer and the children's book sticking out of it. He opened the drawer and pulled the book out.  
 _The Velveteen Rabbit_.

Jimmy flipped through it, but found nothing interesting - yet made a mental note to ask Thomas about it later. He was about to put it back into the drawer when he noticed something else at the bottom of it. It was a piece of paper, and Jimmy wouldn't have read its contents if his own name hadn't been written at the top. The writing was narrow and smudged, but readable, though at one point it cut off abruptly.

_May 2nd, 1924_   
_Dearest Jimmy,_

_Every day since you've gone away has been a forlorn one._   
_As soon as you’d left, the weather had changed. The rain watered everything down. I seem to have caught some sort of cold as well, but the matters of the body hardly matter compared to the matters of the heart in this instance._   
_I can't even begin to tell you how much I miss you. I miss your lovely face and your beautiful eyes. Your voice, your hands, your smile - all of you. The way you could make me laugh even in the darkest of times. The way just the thought of spending the day with you would brighten my mornings, and the way you could seemingly naturally and carelessly play the role of the best friend I ever had._

_I think you know I always felt more about you, even after I agreed to be only your friend. I wouldn't mention it, wouldn't trouble you with it now if the possibility of never getting to see you again wasn't looming over me. I always wanted to be more than just your friend and for that I am sorry, I'm very sorry if I've ever inconvenienced you. It is with complete gravity that I can assure you I'd never ask for anything you couldn't give me._   
_And I've tried to keep quiet about it, but I always suspected that you somehow knew._   
_I was always good at hiding my feelings, but never with you. So I don't think it will come as much of a surprise when I tell you that I have utterly and completely, always, and I still do -_


End file.
